


So Comes Fire After Snow

by rubysharkruby, simplyirenic



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Accidental Baby Dragon Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Developing Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Illustrations, M/M, Mutual Pining, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubysharkruby/pseuds/rubysharkruby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyirenic/pseuds/simplyirenic
Summary: On his first posting, newly-promoted Lieutenant Edward Little has a moment of madness and steals a precious stone from a captured pirate ship. Ten years later, as Edward finds himself stuck on an expedition where everything that can go wrong is going wrong and navigating a relationship with the captain’s steward, the stone hatches.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 38
Kudos: 59
Collections: The Terror Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All illustrations are by the amazingly talented simplyirenic. I could not have wished for a better artist to work with on this project - their dragons are THE CUTEST. Art is embedded in the fic and also [here](https://irenydraws.tumblr.com/post/627649928712339456/but-how-could-you-not-know-it-was-an-egg-tom) on tumblr.
> 
> Many thanks to aulonraid for stellar beta work and encouragement <3

Later, Edward would wonder what devil had possessed him. It had never been in his nature to take that which did not belong to him; ever since he was a child he had found comfort in knowing what the rules were and been dismayed when others did not adhere to them. Rules were a path laid out for you to follow; a way to navigate life’s confusions and be certain you ended up where you were meant to be.

Edward’s path had led him to where he was today; twenty-four years old and a newly-minted lieutenant serving in his first posting aboard HMS Donegal. He wore the uniform and walked the quarterdeck and stood a little straighter each time he caught sight of his gold epaulets glinting in the corner of his eye. Some men complained that there was little adventure to be found at the Lisbon station, but Edward had never craved adventure. He enjoyed a good story as much as the next man and would hang on his father’s every word each time he was deep enough in his cups to recount being there at the Glorious First of June, but such things were better appreciated from a distance. To be an officer in His Majesty’s Navy: to serve aboard a ship and be filled with purpose; that suited him just fine.

It was straightforward work, but satisfying. The only event of note came when the Donegal was tasked with escorting a captured ship that had been run down and seized after attacking a string of merchant vessels. Piracy was far less common in these waters than in days past, but the navy had not yet stamped it out entirely.

Like the Donegal, the pirate ship was of French construction but it was impossible to know how many hands she had passed through since then. Her masts put Edward more in mind of Spanish ships he had seen and the boatswain, who considered himself somewhat of an expert in such matters, claimed the alterations made to the line of her bow could only have been done in the Orient. Whatever previous masters she had served, her captain at the time of her capture hailed from Bristol and he, along with most of his crew, would face charges of desertion as well as piracy.

Once they docked at Lisbon, Edward was assigned four men and the task of compiling a list of all the plunder the seized ship was carrying. It was a somewhat mixed haul: furniture and clothing, for the most part, but also a quantity of sugar and several bolts of Chinese silk his sisters would have sighed over. Edward sent three men up to search the cabins whilst he and the captain of the forecastle moved on to cataloguing the contents of chests and cupboards.

It was in the second drawer of a heavily-lacquered sideboard that Edward found it. At first, he thought it merely a wadded-up scrap of grey silk, but when his fingertips grazed it a curious sensation ran through him. A shiver, almost, but that wasn’t quite right. A vibration. Something akin to the feel of music without the accompanying sound.

Edward glanced behind him. The captain of the forecastle was occupied with noting the contents of a seaman’s chest and didn’t look up.

It was some variety of fabric but the wrong texture for silk and as he tugged it became clear it was a bag and that something was inside. The shiver moved through him again—more resonant this time and centred in his chest—as he reached inside and pulled out a pale round stone the size of a clenched fist. It was cool to the touch and lighter than one might expect; faintly textured, like glass worn smooth by the sea. The light was too poor in the hold for him to discern whether its colour was blue or green, but it was easily the most beautiful thing Edward had ever seen and he turned it over between his hands to admire its perfection of form. He was no geologist, but perhaps Lieutenant Fray with his many books on the subject would be able to identify what type of stone it was.

A discordant shudder went through him. His stomach gave a queasy lurch at the thought of showing the stone to Fray, to anyone. Showing it to someone would mean them taking it from him and he couldn’t allow that. A notch appeared between his brows as he gazed down at the marvel he held.

And then he put the stone back in its bag and slipped it into his coat pocket.

He made no mention of the stone. It wasn’t on the list he delivered to the captain and none of the men reported finding anything out of the ordinary. He carried out his duties for the remainder of the day with his usual care and diligence and it was only when he had retired to the privacy of his own rooms that he retrieved the stone from his pocket, holding it up to catch the last of the evening sun.

He could take it to the captain tomorrow, he told himself, already knowing he wouldn’t. He could say he had placed it in his pocket for safekeeping and forgotten about it in the excitement of the day. There would be sharp words and some menial punishment but no lasting repercussions. Captain Drake was a fair man: he wouldn’t hold a mistake against him. He knew Edward wasn’t a thief.

Except, apparently, he was. The thought should be dismaying but raised only a mild confusion that soon dissipated. It had never been in Edward’s nature to take that which did not belong to him, but somehow the stone did belong to him. It had from the moment he saw it; earlier, perhaps.

In this light, the stone’s colour was a dreamy combination of pale blues and greens that brought to mind sea foam and miles of open water stretched out beneath a golden sun. Flecks of darker blue scattered across its surface, like a shoal of fish swimming past a ship. Edward traced their path with his fingers. It didn’t matter how he had come by the stone; it was beautiful and it was special and it was his. It was that simple.

Edward slept more soundly that night than he ever had before in his life.

___

The stone travelled the world with him in the years that followed. He didn’t look at it every day; sometimes weeks would pass without him thinking of it and then he would remember suddenly and dig through his belongings, breathless and anxious until he held it in his hand once again. It was with him as he sailed the clear waters of the Mediterranean and the Americas, and then that long terrible stretch of time he was on land.

Edward had been born for the sea. His father had been the same, so there was a bitter irony in the fact that it was returning home to set his late father’s affairs in order that had trapped Edward onshore. The business took longer than anticipated, forcing him to turn down a position on the Ganymede, and by the time it was settled to everyone’s satisfaction there were no more positions on offer. The navy was full of lieutenants and Edward didn’t have the kind of name or connections that would make him anyone’s first choice.

In the end, he signed up for the Discovery Service out of desperation. Locating the Northwest Passage was important work, grand work, and any man would be proud to serve his country so, but the truth was Edward had been eighteen months on dry land and just needed to be back on a ship.

As a rule, Edward enjoyed a robust health so it was poor luck that on the day he first set foot on Terror he was suffering from a very bad cold. His throat had been too raw that morning to take anything but tea and a little broth and, despite the mild spring weather, he was all of a shiver and a sweat. Worse, the tonic his sympathetic landlady insisted he take had, if anything, worsened the abominable ache in his head and rendered him sluggish when he desperately wished to appear alert and professional when he reported to Captain Crozier.

He had known the captain by reputation, of course. One of his dearest friends had even sailed with Crozier on this very same ship on the ’39 expedition to the Antarctic and allowed Edward to buy him a meal at their club and pick his brains before he met with his new commander.

“Good man,” Charles had declared after an appropriate amount of commiserating with Edward for his extended time on shore. His background was no loftier than Edward’s—though his father had been a second master instead of a purser—but, unlike Edward, he had the type of charm and looks that made people overlook such a failing. “A sailor not a politician. And tough; very tough. Got a temper on him. But, really, a damned good sailor. I don’t think we’d have made it out without a man lost if anyone else had been sailing Terror through that storm.

“Drinks, of course,” Charles added, offhand. “But show me an Irishman who don’t.”

Edward had found Crozier as described when they were introduced a week later at a party in honour of the expedition. He drained two large whiskeys during the brief span of their conversation and alternated between scanning the crowded and fixing Edward with a slightly-watery but sharp eye that already seemed to find his second in command wanting. It was almost a relief when he excused himself while Edward was in the middle of answering a question about the small market town where he had grown up. Despite this inauspicious start, Edward had, to his relief, found Crozier far more congenial on subsequent meetings and possessing of a keen and agile wit. His eye was still sharp, however, and Edward did not want to disappoint.

Fortunately, being on his own ship had put Crozier in a fine mood and Edward was treated to a tour of Terror, including the impressive locomotive engine he had only before seen in illustration. As they made their way towards the great cabin, they were forced to sidestep several laden workmen. Terror’s crew would not report for some weeks yet, but supplies were already being brought aboard and repairs made to the hot water pipes that ran through the ship and would, supposedly, keep them warm through the long polar nights.

Crozier wished to discuss their route once they had passed Greenland and so a series of maps were spread across the great cabin’s table. Maps had always been of great interest to Edward, but his temples had begun to pound so fiercely that he would have cheerfully set fire to the whole blessed lot rather than have a conversation about currents and coastal winds. A bead of sweat began to creep down his spine.

As they spoke, he was aware of a figure slipping in and out of the cabin with a familiarity that suggested he was Crozier’s steward. Edward’s entire focus was on remaining upright and keeping an attentive expression on his face, but he got the impression of a tall, dark-haired youth.

After an interminable length of time, Crozier was called by one of the workmen to approve some alteration to the pipes and excused himself. The instant Edward was alone, he sagged against the table and closed his eyes. His teeth were chattering. Surely, he would be dismissed soon.

He jumped when a cup of tea was placed in front of him. He blinked at the fine blue and white china and then at Crozier’s steward, standing calmly beside the table with his hands clasped behind his back.

“I stirred some honey and lemon into it, sir,” he said. “For your cold.”

He was older than Edward had thought; Edward’s own age, or thereabouts, and strikingly handsome, though he could do with a shave. His neatly-combed hair was black as pitch and offset by a fresh olive complexion and eyes a startling shade of light green. Or perhaps blue; there might be some blue to their colour.

The steward cleared his throat. “You ought to sit down. The captain will be a few minutes.”

“Oh!” Despite the chill, Edward’s face burned as he realised he had been staring foolishly. “Yes. Of course.”

The room did not seem to sway quite so much when he wasn’t relying on his weak legs to support him. He was aware of the steward’s eyes upon him so he lifted the cup to his lips, unable to stop his eyes from falling shut and a pleased sound from leaving him at the taste.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s—that’s just what my father used to make when we were ill. Except he’d put a tot of whiskey in there too.”

He inhaled deeply at the pain in his chest. Eighteen months was a long time for some things and no time at all for others.

“Thank you,” he said again, more firmly. “That’s most kind of you, Mr…?”

“Jopson, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Jopson.”

Jopson smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Welcome aboard Terror, Lieutenant Little,” he said before leaving Edward with an empty room and sweetness on his tongue.

___

There were no words for the relief of being at sea once more. The sheer speed and power of a ship at full sail; the clear, crisp air filling his lungs as he walked the deck and saw busy industry everywhere he looked. There was a weight to his life that only eased when it was marked by the call of a ship’s bell and guided by a set of rules for him to follow and enforce. He hadn’t known how hard it pressed upon him until it was lifted.

The crew were as fine a group of men as any he had sailed with. Desperation had driven Edward to the Discovery Service, but it was impossible not to get swept up in the glory of their endeavour and the men’s pride in sailing under the banner of Sir John Franklin. Each evening the lower deck rang with laughter and song and the wardroom conversation was lively. Crozier seemed the only man inclined towards a melancholic humour, but a few choice words from Mr Blanky, their Ice Master, would usually bring him out of it. It was impossible to dislike the good-natured Yorkshireman or doubt his experience, but Edward had been at first startled by the liberties their captain allowed him and the familiarity of his manner. Apparently, this level of informality was common in the Discovery Service.

It was perhaps this more permissive environment that led Edward to befriending Mr Jopson. Typically, the captain’s steward and his first lieutenant would have little to say to each other, but once the ships were underway Edward had made a point of seeking him out and thanking him again for his kindness with the honeyed tea.

“I felt so much better for it,” he told Jopson when he came upon him in the passageway leading to the great cabin. “It was just the thing. I made myself another that evening.”

“With a tot of whiskey this time, no doubt, sir.”

Surprised pleasure gripped Edward, both at Jopson remembering what had been said all those weeks ago and his small smile as he teased Edward about it now. “Sadly, no, as my landlady kept a dry house.”

“Well.” Jopson leant forward with a faintly conspiratorial air. The clean linen he was carrying brushed Edward’s sleeve. “If you do take a cold again, I’m sure I can find something in the storeroom for you.”

Life aboard a ship was a busy, noisy affair that allowed very little privacy; nevertheless, over the following months Edward found further opportunities to speak with Jopson. Usually, no more than a polite word or two when their paths crossed as they went about their duties, but sometimes Edward would be left to wait for Crozier in the great cabin and if Jopson was also there they would talk. Nothing of much consequence was ever said and there were times Edward feared he was boring Jopson or keeping him from his work, but his interest in the weather or whatever book Edward was currently reading appeared genuine and he would respond in kind.

It was during one such conversation that Edward became aware that Jopson had accompanied Captain Crozier and Charles on the Antarctic expedition: something he had surely already known but remembered only when Edward’s mention of the previous night’s dinner was met with a glib remark about the taste of penguin meat.

“Why,” Edward exclaimed, “soon you will be one of the few men on Earth to have traversed both poles.”

Jopson smiled self-deprecatingly and busied himself with rearranging the books on what appeared to be an already-immaculate shelf. “Well, I’ll be one of the few men to have served tea and darned socks at both poles. I can’t say I’ll have had much of a hand to play in either expedition’s success.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all.”

His vehemence took both of them by surprise. Jopson blinked twice and opened his mouth, but whatever he had been about to say would remain a mystery as that was the moment the captain returned from the engine room.

Edward withdrew somewhat after his outburst, fearing he had embarrassed himself and made Jopson uncomfortable. He was on good terms with his fellow officers and several of the men, including Mr Blanky and Terror’s marine sergeant, and so was not lacking for conversation should he want it, but he had come to look forward to his moments with Jopson. Admittedly, part of his enjoyment stemmed from the fact that Jopson was so very handsome and pleasant and Edward that unhappy breed of men who noticed such things, but he had thought it harmless. Aside from one or two ill-advised trysts as a youth, Edward had always kept that side of his nature firmly locked away whilst he was at sea. He had sailed with many a handsome man and taken a certain furtive pleasure in their company, but he had never shamed himself nor them by revealing the direction his thoughts ran and had not intended to do so now.

Thankfully, any fears that he had exposed himself were proven to be unfounded. A few days following this embarrassment, Edward almost collided with Jopson as he was exiting his cabin and found himself immediately engaged in conversation about the differences in the ice of the Arctic and Antarctic.

Conversation flowed more smoothly after that and Jopson proved to be a font of interesting observations and opinions on all manner of subjects. Opportunities to speak without an audience remained few and fleeting, but Edward’s interest in his previous voyage seemed to have unstoppered something in Jopson. No longer did he wait upon Edward to make the first overture, and his manner would at times be quite bold indeed, to Edward’s private delight. He was glad not to have deluded himself in thinking Jopson considered him a friend rather than merely a superior officer whose stilted attempts at conversation must be tolerated, and if he took more pleasure in those frank words and smile than was entirely proper, well, that was for no one else to know.

Antarctica remained a common thread of their conversations, and even became somewhat of a shared joke. Not long after they had passed Greenland, Edward descended the stairs after his coldest watch yet to find Jopson idling beside the stove, cheeks rosy as if he had been there for some time.

“Was it this cold in the Antarctic?” Edward asked as he stripped off his gloves and gratefully accepted the cup of hot tea Jopson handed him.

Jopson’s straight black brows raised. “Cold, sir? This is what we would call an Antarctic summer.”

Edward paused, half in and half out of his coat, searching Jopson’s face to gauge the sincerity of this remark. Privates Hammond and Heather, who had shared his watch, crowded closer to the stove, forcing Jopson to step neatly to the side and into a beam of reflected light that caught his pale eyes, making them shine a luminous blue-green.

“On days like this we used to watch the penguins and seals basking in the sun,” Jopson added when the silence stretched out a beat too long. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a black and brown penguin, have you, sir?”

That night, Edward took the stone from the locked drawer beneath his bed and held it up to the moonlight streaming in through the illuminator. He slowly turned it this way and that until he found the colour he was looking for.

He still had no idea what type of stone it might be and, in truth, had looked no further into the matter in the eight years it had been in his possession. The green put him in mind of jade from the Orient, though he had never seen any of this particular shade; or it could be some type of opal, perhaps. Whatever it was, it had been shaped by a master craftsman: there was no mark of a tool upon it and it was very pleasing in the hand. The further north they travelled the more Edward found himself compelled to behold it. At night he would turn it between his hands or lie on his back with it resting upon his chest. At times, the cold was such that the stone felt almost warm in contrast and it pained him to return it to its cloth bag and lock it away once more, safe from prying eyes.

That first winter at Beechey was a hard one. Since boyhood, a strange, sad heaviness had always settled upon Edward in the winter months but he felt its weight that year like never before. He took to sleeping with the stone cradled against his chest. The warmth it gave out was an illusion, the product of a dull and tired mind, but the comfort he took from it was both real and necessary. Ill health swept through both crews and despite efforts to keep the men’s spirits up with concerts and contests, there was little any of them could do but hunker down like men of some bygone age and wait for the sun to return.

They left three men buried on Beechey Island when they moved on with the thaw. A harsh blow to fall so early in an expedition, but the mood lightened once they were underway and had put that wretched place behind them.

Edward felt much improved as he walked the deck. The air was crisp and lively with the sounds he loved best: the creak and snap of rope and sail, the prow cutting through water, and the calls of a naval crew at work. He nodded to Mr Hartnell as he passed and received a polite bob of the head in return. Hartnell had signed up to Erebus’ crew with his brother but been given permission to transfer to Terror when his brother was the second man they lost at Beechey. He had settled in well and proven to be a conscientious worker, if quiet, though Edward did not yet know him well enough to discern whether it was his nature or grief that made him so.

As Edward approached the bow, he was pleasantly surprised to find Jopson looking out at the icebergs that loomed to either side of them. He was bundled up in a thick coat and gloves, his cheeks and nose were pink from the cold and his eyes brightened when Edward took the space beside him.

“It’s cold to be on deck if you don’t need to be,” Edward said.

A thick white cloud formed and dispersed as Jopson made a dismissive noise. “A fine day for an Antarctic picnic.”

Satisfaction thrummed through Edward as they stood side by side. It had been a long hard winter but they were moving once more and the passage lay ahead of them, waiting to be discovered. He turned his eye to the icebergs that had so captivated Jopson. Before this voyage he had always imagined them to be dreary lumps of white, but here they rose from the water in all manner of strange and beautiful formations that varied in colour from whites to pale blues and greens that caused a pang in his chest. A kind of wanting.

“Besides,” Jopson said, pitching his voice low, “it’s nice to finally get some time alone.”

The remark startled Edward from his reverie, filling him with a mixture of shame and dismay. Jopson worked harder than anyone and was forever at an officer’s beck and call, and here Edward was: intruding on his moment of peace.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Jopson,” he muttered, embarrassed, and turned to go.

Jopson’s hand lit upon his sleeve, a light but deliberate touch that their bodies shielded from the other men on board. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Meeting that clear gaze, Edward’s stomach gave a sudden sickening lurch as he realised that Jopson was like him. That he knew exactly why Edward sought him out and the type of pleasure he took in his company because he felt it too. Edward’s heart raced as he thought back to all those smiles, the gentle teasing that had so delighted him, and saw now that it had all been because Jopson was under the impression there was an understanding between them. An affair, of sorts. Some men of their persuasion could be identified on sight; by their mannerisms or some indefinable quality that set them apart from other men. Mr Bridgens on Erebus was one, the carpenter on the Vindictive another; men who could not hide their nature. Jopson was not such a man and Edward had always believed himself not to be either. He had prided himself upon it.

Yet Jopson had known. For months, certainly: perhaps from the very moment Edward first boarded Terror. All this time Edward’s hidden self had been laid bare and he completely ignorant to the fact.

Jopson was smiling. His hand was on Edward’s arm and he was regarding Edward with a warmly expectant expression, that it hurt to look at. Edward remained frozen in place, completely out of his element and not knowing what he should do.

He was jolted from his indecision by the call of the bell. The familiar sound reminded him of where he was, of who he was, and the rules that he could always depend upon in moments of uncertainty.

“That’s the bell,” he told Jopson. “You had better start preparing for dinner, hadn’t you?”

For a long moment Jopson didn’t move, save for his eyes searching Edward’s face. Then he withdrew his hand. The warmth and openness was gone from his expression like it had never been there, leaving only the cool mask of a servant.

“Yes, sir,” he said, voice arch and brittle in a way Edward had never heard from him before. “Very good, sir.”

And then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Edward had been unaware of how much warmth his connection with Jopson had brought to his life until it was severed. There were no more meetings by the stove as Edward came off watch; no more jokes about the Antarctic or smiles across the great cabin. Jopson’s manner now with Edward was perfectly cool and servile and scathing in the way only a wronged servant could be.

And Edward had wronged him; he saw that now. He had been unforgivably foolish and hurt a good man through his own self-indulgence. It had been wrong to cultivate an intimacy with Jopson whilst desiring him so, and worse still to make such a poor show of concealing his feelings that desire had been mistaken for intent. He had thought about it, of course; how things might have been had they met on land. Edward would have considered himself fortunate indeed to have been approached by Jopson in a tavern. He would have followed Jopson back to his room and given him whatever he wanted, gladly, and the encounter might even have led to some type of arrangement between them. Evenings at the theatre and Sunday afternoons in bed: nothing between them but warm skin and shared breath.

“But such a thing isn’t possible aboard a ship,” Edward murmured in the close dark of his cabin. “Jopson has spent enough years at sea and is as intelligent and practical a man as you could ever hope to meet. He has to have known it was impossible.”

The words met with silence: the stone nestled against his breastbone not capable of a response. It still felt warmer to the touch than he could account for and so he had continued his habit of taking it into his bed at night. With Jopson grown so cold to him, it felt more necessary now than ever. Sleep was not always quick to find him of late and in the small dark hours it felt natural to hold the stone close and speak his thoughts to it. Such an action was more suited to a child than an officer in Her Majesty’s navy and ought to have shamed him, perhaps, but did not, though he made certain to keep his voice low enough not to disturb George Hodgson in the neighbouring cabin.

He spoke of their quest for the passage, of the Arctic’s strange harsh beauty, of the men he sailed with and his responsibilities towards them as the ship’s first lieutenant. And sometimes he would speak of Jopson: his kindness and the clever things he would say; how Edward missed him.

Such thoughts were only for the dark. It wasn’t in Edward’s nature to dwell and during the daylight hours his focus was solely on the work before him and rebuilding those relationships he feared he might have neglected during the winter’s malaise. His fellow lieutenants were pleasant enough company of an evening. He and George shared a passion for music and, though their tastes differed somewhat, they were both sufficiently well-informed on the subject to make for a lively debate. John Irving was a quieter sort and shared Edward’s preference for letting others carry the bulk of a conversation, but he could be quite loquacious given the right subject and was most accomplished at coaxing Mr Blanky into telling stories of past expeditions and his years as captain of a whaling ship.

Erebus lost one man to the sea and Terror another to illness. As with the men at Beechey, there were no signs of scurvy so they pushed onwards. Despite these new losses, morale was high among the men and the mood optimistic. Even as the ice thickened around them and they were forced to blast and hack their way forward, there was still the sense that if they just kept going they would break through. That their goal was within reach.

It wasn’t to be. For the second winter they drew down the canvas and settled in to wait for the thaw. They wouldn’t be reaching the passage this year.

___

That second winter passed more gently than the first. David Young’s death proved not to be a portend of things to come; there were no further losses over the winter and only a few serious bouts of sickness. Worst amongst these was Private Wilkes, who was struck down by a fever that left him insensible for a week, but he recovered well and was soon back on his feet and being brusquely fussed over by Sergeant Tozer.

A dry cough and head cold spread through Terror’s lower deck. Edward himself was not affected, but Jopson’s voice acquired a hoarse raspy quality and muffled coughing could at times be heard in the passageway or storeroom, though he was too much the professional to ever draw attention to himself in the presence of an officer.

Were Edward a bolder man he might have said something. He might have expressed sympathy for Jopson’s affliction; enquired whether he was getting enough rest. Once, Jopson had brought him warm tea with honey and lemon stirred into it; Edward could have done the same.

But he knew such attention would be unwelcome. Jopson’s manner had eased somewhat since the summer and speaking with him no longer left Edward feeling like he had been stripped of several layers of skin, but the blank servant’s mask stayed in place. Speaking to Edward was a task Jopson performed when duty required it of him—like laying a table or righting a crooked hem—and not the pleasure it had once seemed. The warmth was gone, but Edward would rather suffer Jopson’s indifferent courtesy than overstep and risk reawakening the scorn of those first weeks. Summer would see a thaw in the ice and they would find the Northwest Passage and return home to great fanfare. The expedition would become a story of their triumph: something for Commander Fitzjames or George to tell while Edward smiled and nodded and said yes, that’s just how it happened. Jopson would not be in the story Edward heard, nor he in the version Jopson would tell his friends and family in Marylebone. That was just how it was.

And then Graham Gore was killed. Edward had not known him terribly well: they had been stationed on different ships and only spoken briefly at Admiralty functions, but he had been a godsend that winter at Beechey. Of them all, Gore had been the best at keeping the men’s spirits up and his previous experience in the Arctic made him invaluable to an expedition where so few of its officers could claim the same. His loss was a terrible blow to them all.

This loss was followed by the even more unthinkable: that of Sir John himself. They had not seen a single bear that entire winter and now one had cut down two of their best men and Erebus’ marine sergeant within the space of a few days. Edward saw his own shock and horror reflected in the faces around him. To have nothing left of Sir John to bury but a leg. It didn’t seem real.

After the funeral, Edward found himself sitting alone in Terror’s wardroom. The officers and men had gathered on Erebus after the pomp and ceremony were done, but Edward’s chest had grown tighter and tighter in that crowded space until he had finally taken it upon himself to return to Terror with those men who wished to accompany him. Nearly thirty made the journey back, Edward and Mr Thomas the only officers and three marines escorting them. The men were left in Mr Thomas’ capable hands while Edward turned his heavy steps towards his cabin. He wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and hold the stone between his hands, but instead turned left into the wardroom and sank into a chair. His body felt a thing of straw with lead weights at the end of each limb. He stared blankly at his bicorn hat on the table before him.

A flicker in the corner of his eye made him look up to find Jopson at the open door. He had returned from the funeral with the others but there had been no inescapable duty forcing him to speak with Edward and so he had not. The blank mask was in place and it gave an apology, made to leave, and suddenly it was more than Edward could bear.

“Please.” Somehow, he was on his feet. “Please, Mr Jopson. I would speak with you if I may.”

There was no change in Jopson’s expression but his reluctance was plain. If it had been possible for him to refuse a superior officer on such a matter there was no doubt he would have done so.

“I have offended you.” The words left Edward in a rush. His hands were shaking; he could feel sweat begin beneath his arms. “And I am sorry for it. It wasn’t my intention. I acted with a lack of care rather than malice, but the effect is the same and I— I am sorry. Very sorry.”

With a swift glance along the passageway, Jopson stepped fully into the room and slid shut the door behind him. His expression was still that of a placidly attentive servant, but his eyes searched Edward’s face.

“Thank you, sir,” he said without inflection.

“No. Christ, don’t— don’t thank me.” Edward had the sense of himself as a vessel that had finally cracked, allowing everything that had been left to curdle and fester inside of him to spill out. The pain of it was sharp and ugly but left him feeling lighter with every word. “I have treated you poorly. You surprised me and I spoke without thinking and then I didn’t know what to say to make things right so I didn’t try. I was a coward.”

Jopson’s fingers had begun to thread themselves together restlessly. He saw Edward notice and clasped them behind his back, drawing himself up to his full height.

“I misread the situation,” he said, his voice flat and tight. Polished free of the rougher accent that used to slip in at times when they were alone. “You would have been well within your rights to report me to the captain, and I am grateful that you didn’t. There was a misunderstanding and you have my word it shall never happen again, sir.”

“No.”

Jopson faltered, uncertain which part of what he’d just said was being refuted. “No?”

This was a terrible idea. It would be enough to apologise to Jopson and have them on civil terms; in time, they might even rebuild something of their friendship. That ought to be enough. But Edward was so cold and so tired and what did it matter now? Jopson deserved the truth. “No, you didn’t misread the situation.”

Jopson regarded him and said nothing.

“I had not realised that the situation was mutual, but you did not misread me.” Edward drew in a shaky breath. “If I were to report you to the captain then I had better report myself too.”

An expression passed across Jopson’s face then; no longer blank, but no easier to read. His eyes remained hard and sharp but there was a kind of wonder there too as he looked at Edward.

He nodded slowly. “Well, then,” he said, low.

They stared at each other from across the room until there came the noise of more men returned from Erebus. Jopson left to see if he was needed and Edward finally made it to his cabin. He sat heavily on the bed and looked down at his hands. And then he raised them to cover the helpless smile spreading across his face.

___

Grief lay heavy over the ship and the stench of whiskey hung in the great cabin at all hours of the day now, but Edward’s step felt a little lighter. His talk with Jopson had cleared the air and, though things did not return to the way they had once been, there was a cautiously approachable quality to Jopson that had been missing these past months. Edward would look up from his plate to find Jopson’s pale eyes fixed upon him and a notch between his brows; as though Edward were a riddle to be solved.

Jopson was reserved in a way he had not been even in those first weeks since leaving Greenhithe, but he would respond to Edward’s halting attempts at conversation and even smiled once at a feeble jest. Tension still existed between them but there was a different quality to it now.

Nearly six weeks after Sir John’s funeral, Jopson noted that Edward had a button come loose on his coat and offered to mend it for him. Despite this being a task for Gibson and there being no perceivable looseness to any of Edward’s buttons, he agreed. Edward had thought Jopson would take the coat to his own cabin or, when his feet turned instead towards the stern, the great cabin, but after a glance at the door that had been decidedly closed since breakfast, Jopson astonished Edward by sliding open the door to Edward’s own cabin. Heart beating fast, Edward trailed after him.

Jopson had already settled himself at Edward’s desk and taken out his mending kit, looking every bit as comfortable as if this were his own cabin and Edward the interloper. Slowly, Edward sat on his bed and tucked his restless hands beneath his thighs. He kicked his heel against the locked drawer beneath his bed.

The heady pleasure of Jopson seeking out his company warred with his discomfort at having anyone in his cabin. This was something stewards could always perceive in him and some grew resentful, believing he thought them thieves, though he could not very well explain that this discomfort extended to his fellow officers and men he had sailed with for years and trusted with his life. Edward had valued his privacy as much as any other boy with a multitude of siblings, or man with a secret that could ruin him, but he had never minded sharing his space until the stone came into his possession. No matter how well he concealed it, or how sturdy the lock on his chest or drawer, there was always the fear that someone would discover it and take it from him. The sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of showing it to anyone else had not lessened over the years.

In addition to these contradictory feelings was the sense that Jopson’s very presence in his cabin was something illicit and forbidden. Edward had been alone in here with Gibson on countless occasions, sometimes in a state of undress, without any thought of impropriety but Jopson was different. Edward’s awareness of Jopson: the breadth of his shoulders, his capable hands, the pinch of concentration at his generous mouth made it different.

Jopson took Edward’s coat upon his knee and flicked a sideways look at him before plucking a button off between his fingers. Edward’s astonishment must have been plain because he looked amused. “Did you think I asked for your coat under false pretences?”

“No,” Edward said, though he had. He watched Jopson bite off a line of thread and wet it between finger and thumb before sliding it through the needle’s eye with the ease of familiarity. “I was not aware it was loose. You have a good eye.”

The corner of Jopson’s mouth tilted upwards. “My father’s a tailor. He’s got a shop on Old Bond Street, taught me everything he knows.”

The subject of their families and upbringing had come up more than once during the conversations they had shared in the months before they left Beechey. Jopson had expressed astonishment at Edward’s excess of sisters and revealed in his turn that he and his younger brother had lived for some years with an aunt on a farm in Essex when their family fell on hard times. Edward had been led to understand that Jopson’s father was a tradesman of some description, but he hadn’t known anything beyond that and this new scrap of information captivated him. It felt significant that Jopson would choose to share this with him now: not forgiveness, but a second chance perhaps.

“You did not wish to work with him?” he asked. “Jopson and Son would be a fine name for a shop.”

Jopson did not look up from his work. The needle flashed as it caught the light. “I wanted to see the world,” he said. “So I joined up. But it turned out I wasn’t much of a sailor: no good at knots. And then on one voyage one of the stewards got an infected cut on his hand and died and I ended up taking over from him. And that I was good at. I work as a gentleman’s valet when I’m on land.”

This piece of information was even more fascinating than the last. Edward had never considered what Jopson did when he wasn’t at sea; he couldn’t quite imagine him off a ship somehow. “Do you enjoy that work?”

Jopson tilted his head indecisively. “I enjoy keeping a house in order. It’s something I’m good at. But when the captain wrote to ask if I would consider joining him on another expedition I jumped at the chance. Especially since the weather here is so mild compared to the Antarctic.”

Finally, he looked up at Edward. “What about you, sir? What made you join the navy?”

The reference to Antarctica had so pleased and surprised Edward that for a moment he struggled to respond. “My father was a purser. He served aboard the Audacious at the Glorious First of June. He wanted me to become an officer.”

Encouragement lit Jopson’s eyes, like there must be more to the story than that but there wasn’t really. Edward’s father had decided he was to be an officer and so that was what had happened; he had followed the path laid out for him. That was the why of it, but it wasn’t the whole story, and Edward searched his head for the words to make Jopson understand.

“I am more myself at sea.” He winced at how foolish this must sound but persisted. “Seeing the world, that’s part of it—and I am proud to serve my country. But the sea: being on a ship. I am not at home elsewhere.”

It was not at all what he had meant to say, but somehow Jopson seemed to catch his meaning.

“You’re a sailor,” he said, fond. “In love with the sea and not knowing what to do with yourself without it.”

That wasn’t entirely it either but Edward nodded, mesmerised by Jopson’s smile.

“I could tell, you know,” Jopson continued in that confidential tone Edward had missed greatly. He had finished reattaching the button and his fingers smoothed idly across Edward’s coat, pale against the dark wool. “Men become officers for all sorts of reasons, but I knew you were a sailor from the first time I saw you.”

“Am I so transparent?” Edward asked, near giddy to have Jopson teasing him again.

“Oh, only to someone paying attention, sir.”

Edward leaned forward. Wet his lips. “You know, you could call me Edward if you liked. When it’s just us alone. If you would like for us to be friends once more.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest as Jopson’s smile spread wider. “I could.”

“And perhaps I might call you Thomas?”

“You might,” Jopson allowed. “But if we’re truly to be friends, you ought to call me Tom.”

___

Edward’s rekindled friendship with Tom was a joy he held fast to as the days once again grew darker and they prepared to spend their third winter in the ice.

The thaw hadn’t come that summer; instead the ice had turned on them, slowly but inexorably forcing Terror upwards at the bow. After some consultation with his counterpart on Erebus, Mr Blanky was of the opinion that there was no way to predict whether the ice would continue to drive them upwards until the beams snapped beneath the pressure or if it would stop of its own accord before reaching that point. That was if it didn’t just tighten its grip on Terror and crack her open like an egg.

The creaking of the ice surrounding them took on a menacing tone. Each night Edward curled his body around the stone and lulled himself to sleep with murmured reassurances that he wouldn’t let anything hurt it, that he would keep it safe. It didn’t matter that a stone was considerably more resilient and less likely to be crushed or drowned than he should the ship sink; in those hazy moments when he was already starting to dream, the warm shape against his chest became something fragile and infinitely precious. Something to be protected no matter what.

Edward spoke regularly with Mr Blanky and set six men the task of monitoring the ice’s progress. This was perhaps the responsibility of their captain, but Edward had found himself taking on more of a captain’s duties of late.

Crozier’s drinking had gotten steadily worse since Sir John died. If it had been grief driving him to the bottle that might have been understandable—though not excusable—but his reasons clearly lay elsewhere. The longer they spent in the ice, the more he retreated into himself and his rooms. He had taken to spending days at a time drinking in the dark and staring at the walls; missing meetings, neglecting the scientific observations, and avoiding the crew, who now looked to him for guidance not only as Terror’s captain but as leader of the expedition entire. The men deserved better.

As if this weren’t enough, the bear that killed Sir John had taken to stalking the ships. Erebus reported sightings and tracks in the snow, but it was Terror that bore the brunt of the animal’s attentions. For weeks it did nothing but circle them; out of range but close enough to make its presence known and fray the nerves of every man aboard. Its attack, when it came, was a lit match and it did not take much for the situation to blaze out of control.

The Netsilik woman had been shaking as Edward untied her; her breaths shallow and fast like a trapped animal. It was this Edward kept returning to during the trial while Mr Hickey capered and performed and made it clear to every man there that he thought he had done something very grand indeed. Edward’s fists ached from how hard he clenched them at his sides.

The crime was inexcusable, but the punishment went too far. After the sentence had been carried out, Edward paced the scant few feet of deck in his cabin in a helpless fury. He had never favoured lashing as a punishment but its purpose was to draw a line beneath a man’s misdeed so he could start anew with a clean slate. Some men were lashed only once and emerged all the better for it: Henry Peglar’s back was striped and he was the best captain of a foretop Edward had ever served with. It was meant as a corrective; a way for a captain to set his men back on the right path. It was not meant to be used to humiliate a man for speaking out of turn.

The crowded space had been thick with resentment as Hickey was strapped down to the table and given his thirty lashes. Crozier might have been too drunk to realise it, but the rest of them weren’t. The men had a keen sense of what was fair and what was not and every man there knew what he was witnessing was unfair. No wonder most of them had chosen to transfer to Erebus; Edward almost wished he could join them.

He wheeled around as his door slid open to admit Tom. During the lashing, Edward had watched Tom flinch and his cheek was still pale and his lips pressed tight together. Seeing him in such a state of agitation made Edward’s blood boil anew and he choked out, “He can’t do this, he—”

He was shocked into silence by Tom putting a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t,” Tom said. “I can’t listen to that. You weren’t in the Antarctic, Edward, you don’t _know_. He’s not himself right now but he’ll get through this and things will be better, you’ll see.”

The words were the worst kind of foolishness but Edward barely heard them. His entire attention was on Tom’s hand across his mouth, pressed to his lips. The only purposeful touch that had before passed between them was when Tom laid his hand on Edward’s sleeve as they stood at the ship’s bow all those months ago. Edward was suddenly very aware of his own body, the pulse hammering in his throat and the prickle of gooseflesh at the nape of his neck.

Thoughtlessly, he wet his lips and his tongue touched Tom’s palm.

Tom made a soft sound. He had already been looking at Edward but his eyes seemed to find a new degree of focus, almost overwhelming at such close range. Slowly, he moved his hand so that it cupped the side of Edward’s face and his eyes dropped to his mouth.

For so long it had seemed an impossibility, but in the end it was very simple to fit their mouths together; Edward tilting upwards and Tom down to bridge the difference in their heights. Tom’s hand on Edward’s face guided him to a better angle as he tenderly opened Edward’s mouth with his own. An involuntary sound left Edward at the first sleek touch of Tom’s tongue to his and Tom groaned, hand tightening on Edward’s back. His body was lean and strong beneath Edward’s hands as the kiss deepened.

Need and desire built in Edward until he was breathless with it. He pulled back and made to drop to his knees but Tom let out a displeased sound and caught him about the chest, holding him in place.

“I was—”

“I know.” Tom kissed him hard, hands dropping to Edward’s hips and pulling him in tight enough that they both groaned. “I want you here. I want you closer.”

Eventually, they made it to the bed and Edward found himself pinned beneath Tom’s solid weight. Between kisses, they wrestled with each other’s shirts and trouser fronts until there was warm skin beneath their palms, an answering hardness to move against. When Edward reached his precipice his cry was swallowed by Tom’s mouth, and when Tom followed it was with a low groan that made Edward’s body tremble as if it thought the crisis his own.

After, they lay face to face with their knees overlapping on Edward’s narrow bed. Edward stroked along the lean line of Tom’s waist, stunned and happy and so incapable of concealing either that it might have been embarrassing had Tom not needed to keep hiding his own grin against the pillow. Edward moved his hand to the back of Tom’s neck, warm and faintly damp from their exertions, and kissed him until their foolish smiles forced them to stop and touch their foreheads together.

Tom began to shake lightly against him and it was only when Edward drew back, concerned, that he saw he was laughing.

“You didn’t realise the situation was mutual,” Tom gently mocked.

His meaning escaped Edward’s dazed brain for a moment and then he flushed and turned his own face into the pillow. “I didn’t.”

“I wasn’t exactly subtle.” Tom stroked his fingers deep into Edward’s hair, petting him with such simple and straightforward affection it made him feel weak. “Even the first time you came aboard Terror.”

“You brought me tea with lemon and honey stirred into it.”

“I did.” Tom’s smile was evident in his voice. “How shameless of me. You looked so miserable with your poor scratch of a voice and red nose; holding onto the table for dear life. I thought you were about to keel over.”

“That was kind of you.” Edward turned his head enough to see Tom’s satisfied expression; the lazy eyes and flushed cheeks, the hair fallen across his brow. “I suppose that’s how you seduce all the officers.”

Tom’s hand stilled in his hair. For a heart-stopping moment Edward thought his jest must have come out wrong, that it must have sounded in some way sincere, and then Tom let out a delightful honk of a laugh that he immediately muffled with his own hand. The noise and Tom’s wide eyes set Edward off laughing too and it was some time before he could regain control of himself.

Tom wrestled him close and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “It worked, didn’t it? I suppose it’s not just flies you can catch with honey.”

Lying in Tom’s arms was a heady pleasure but the risk of discovery made it a dangerous one and they reluctantly separated before long. As Tom stood and restored himself to a state of order, smoothing down his coat and running fingers through his fine black hair, Edward felt the dark touch of melancholia within him again. Despite the joys of this past hour, nothing outside of this room had changed. The ship was still upended and commanded by a captain who acted out of spite and would rather lose himself in a bottle than take care of his men. They were still being hunted by a creature none of them understood and trapped in a cold and sunless place far beyond the reach of civilisation.

His thoughts must have been clear on his face because Tom kissed him again, slow and sweet. “Things will turn out all right,” he said before he left.

With Tom gone, Edward’s cabin seemed colder and bare in a way it hadn’t before. The warmth of his touch lingered, though, on Edward’s skin, on his lips, making him smile as he readied himself to retire and put this long and confusing day behind him. He changed into his nightclothes and retrieved the bag containing the stone before climbing into bed. Tonight, he felt less in need of comfort and more the desire to somehow share all that was humming beneath the cradle of his ribs.

He took the stone from its bag and held it up to the warm lamplight. And that was when he saw the crack running down its centre.

___

Edward’s heart pounded and his hands shook as he held the stone closer to the lamp’s glow. The crack was very faint and appeared to begin at the slightly narrower end of the stone; running down a third of its length, smaller hairline fractures branching off to either side. Shallow enough that his fingertips couldn’t detect any difference in texture.

He hadn’t been aware stone could crack in such a way, and for no discernible reason. In all the years the stone had been in his possession he had never treated it harshly: never dropped it, always kept it in its soft bag and wrapped it in a set of his clothes when travelling. He had kept it safe. Possibly, he had damaged it unknowingly as he slept, knocked it against the wall of his cabin—but stone was more resilient than that, surely. At the very least, the noise would have woken him and most likely George too.

His fingers followed the crack and then the darker flecks across the pale blue-green. It was such a faint imperfection that he couldn’t be certain it hadn’t been there the previous night, or earlier still. The light was poor in his cabin and he had been so tired lately. Distracted. It was possible the fissure had been there for weeks without him noticing. Longer, perhaps. As he traced the dappled patterns it seemed to him that the crack might have been there the entire time; since he first discovered it in a pirate’s hoard and took it for his own. It was entirely possible that it was a feature of the stone, so familiar to him that he had simply forgotten it for a moment. Nothing had changed. There was no cause for concern.

Something about this line of reasoning didn’t sit entirely right, but he couldn’t have said why. If the stone were damaged, he would be dismayed and he wasn’t dismayed therefore it wasn’t damaged. He had been startled at first, certainly, and experienced a brief moment of confusion but all was well. He extinguished the lamp and lay on his side with the stone at his chest. As on previous nights, his last words and thoughts before sleep took him were of keeping it safe from harm.

There was no change in the stone over the following weeks. Each time he examined it, he was unable to entirely remember whether there had always been the second crack along the other side, or if those smaller fissures had always been so pronounced and numerous, but it seemed unimportant.

Terror was a different ship with most of her crew gone. The three men who had been lashed were not given the option to transfer to the more-stable Erebus and, once Dr McDonald had pronounced them fit, graduated to light duties with regular visits to the infirmary to make certain infection hadn’t taken hold. Hartnell had reverted to the quiet of his first days aboard Terror—which Edward now knew to be uncharacteristic—but it was too soon to say how the experience had changed him or the other men.

Terror’s marines were also not given the option to leave, Edward was reminded by Sergeant Tozer as they warmed their hands by the stove, much like they hadn’t been given the option to sign up for the expedition in the first place. His curled lip and blunt manner left Edward uncertain whether this was meant as a joke or not. It was, after all, true. It seemed unlikely Tozer would have taken the opportunity to leave Terror even given the choice, not while Private Heather remained in the infirmary. According to Dr McDonald, Tozer sat and spoke with the unconscious private at least once a day. It was admirable to see a man take his duty to the men under his care so seriously.

Edward had harboured an unspoken and foolish hope that Crozier would come to his senses once their stores of whiskey ran dry. Tom refused to discuss any aspect of the captain’s personal habits, and would turn sharp when pressed, but it was plain this level of consumption could not continue indefinitely. There would come an end point.

Storms buffeted Terror and the temperature dropped sharply. Tom’s efforts meant the great cabin was always as neat as a pin, but he couldn’t do anything about the stench of whiskey and sweat that took Edward back to mornings in his father’s study before the maid had been in to open windows and air the room. Crozier barely left his rooms anymore and Edward found himself trudging across the ice to attend command meetings in his stead: Captain Fitzjames’ barely-concealed frustration at one end and Crozier’s indifference or caustic wit at the other and Edward forever batted back and forth between them.

Lying to Fitzjames was a burden; stealing from him a humiliation. Edward had barely been able to meet Mr Collins’ eye when he handed him the requisition form and resentment weighted his steps the entire miserable walk back to Terror. He had followed the wretched order to the letter and lost a good man in the process, but Crozier cared only that Edward had brought him gin instead of whiskey. Resentment warred with disgust as Crozier leant in, close and bleary-eyed and vicious in his threats, and Edward couldn’t leave the room fast enough.

He almost collided with Tom in the passageway. It would have been very fast for him to have already seen to the distribution of Mr Hornby’s possessions, but he took one look at Edward’s face and then a quick glance back towards the forecastle before manoeuvring them both into Edward’s cabin.

In the month since the night the men were lashed, Tom had spent a not insignificant amount of time in Edward’s cabin—all of it very enjoyable—but his eyes were serious as he searched Edward’s face.

“He’s sending me out again,” Edward told him, voice thick and ugly. “I was not a good enough thief the first time, and that’s the only worth I have to our captain.”

“No, that’s not true. He isn’t himself today, Edward. He thinks very highly of you.”

A jagged laugh tore from Edward’s throat. Once, he had hoped that might be true, but now he knew it was not he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Crozier thought only of himself and valued nothing unless it put a drink in his hand. He didn’t understand how Tom could keep saying the captain wasn’t himself—if not himself, then who was he? Who were they trapped here with?

“He thinks highly enough of me to send me out again into the storm that killed Mr Hornby. He would rather gamble with my life and the lives of whichever men I take with me than drink gin instead of whiskey.”

Tom went quiet. His face was pale and pinched. “Don’t go,” he finally said in one quick breath.

It was the first time Edward had ever heard him contradict anything Crozier said. He looked at Tom with astonishment.

Tom looked uneasy about it himself but said, “Don’t go,” again, stronger this time, and spread his hand across the back of Edward’s neck. A warm comforting weight. “Just… just wait. Don’t go out there. We’ll work something out.”

Edward rested his forehead against Tom’s and breathed in deep and slow. Tom’s hand remained on the back of his neck as they breathed together. A moment of calm before the coming storm.

___

As events transpired, there was no need for Edward to make another trip to Erebus. He sat on his bed with Crozier’s pistol balanced on his knee, staring at it numbly. The weight of it pressed down on him; it was too much. He didn’t want this.

With every second the pistol was in view he felt his chest tighten another notch. With a herculean effort, he forced himself to move and locked it in one of the drawers beneath his bed. He took out the stone, pulling it from its bag with unsteady hands. To his horror, the cracks running down its sides had somehow spread outwards so that they now covered most of its surface. The worst of the larger cracks also seemed to have grown wider and deeper since the previous night, pronounced enough that his fingernail snagged against the fissure when he examined it more closely. It seemed almost as if he could pry the stone apart.

The stone felt warmer than usual too. He ran a fingertip along the largest fissure and then cried out in fright and dropped the stone into his lap when it gave an unmistakable shudder.

There was a crunching, cracking noise and a ripple of movement and then the stone split open and sitting in his lap was some kind of creature.

It was serpentine in appearance, though with four short legs and a pair of wings folded against its back, and rather larger than he would have thought capable of fitting inside the stone. Or the egg, as it had clearly been all this time. Beneath the wet gleam of the egg’s interior, its scales were a pale vivid blue. Ridges ran down the length of its spine to the tip of its tail. It twisted in his lap, shaking itself and stretching as if after a long sleep. Edward remained very still.

The dragon—because that was what it was, what else could it be—turned to look up at him. It had large golden eyes with slitted pupils like a cat. It blinked at him.

“Hello?” Edward said weakly.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing in Edward’s training or his years at sea had prepared him for a situation such as this. He and the dragon regarded each other. Its head cocked to the side and a forked tongue flickered from its mouth, tasting the air.

Edward wasn’t familiar with dragons, but he knew how one introduced oneself to a strange animal. Moving very slowly and cautiously, he offered his hand for the dragon to scent. It made a curious chuffing sound and inspected his fingertips before surprising him by climbing into his palm. From its nose to the tip of its tail it was a little longer than the length of his hand and as light as a bird. Tiny claws pricked his palm. There was intelligence in its golden eyes and the set of its horned head as it looked up at Edward and not a trace of fear. The last of Edward’s own wariness dissolved and something settled warm in his chest.

“Hello,” he said softly. “My name is Edward. I, I don’t believe I’ve met a dragon before. Are you… do you talk?”

The dragon made that curious sound again and twitched its tail in a manner that struck Edward as decidedly amused. It consented to having the wet insides of the egg wiped from its scales with a damp cloth, bearing up under the attention with impatient hisses and flicks of its tail that put Edward in mind of a fractious child being attended to by its nursemaid. Once clean, it shook itself like a dog and beat the air with its wings. They were similar to those of a bat; somewhat leathery and the same pale blue as the rest of it, though with faint dappling of a darker hue near the top. Now that it was clean, those same markings were discernible beside the six tiny horns protruding from its head and to either side of the ridge that ran down its spine.

It seemed the dragon’s wings weren’t yet strong enough for it to take flight, as after a series of rather awkward flaps, it settled once more and then astonished Edward by eating the egg shell that had housed it for so long.

After this rather messy meal and another wipe with the cloth the dragon jumped down onto the deck to inspect the cabin. Edward watched it from his seat on the bed. There wasn’t a great amount of space for it to explore but it appeared deeply interested in every nook and cranny. Edward’s heart leapt into his throat and an involuntary noise left him as it approached the door, causing the dragon to look back at him over its shoulder.

“That’s the door,” Edward told it. “The rest of the ship is outside. It’s very big. And dark. I think you had better stay in here for the moment.”

The dragon’s tongue flickered out at him, but it turned away from the door to examine the closed drawers beneath Edward’s bed with their brass locks. In time, it tired of its exploration and returned to stand at Edward’s feet. It looked up at him and made a plaintive chirping noise until he reached down and let it climb back onto his palm.

Tiny sharp teeth showed as it yawned hugely and then stretched in a catlike motion that began at its foreclaws and rippled all the way down to the tip of its tail. It let out a grumbling noise and butted the base of Edward’s thumb. Gingerly, Edward touched a fingertip to the dragon’s head and stroked very gently over it and down the spine, repeating the action with more confidence as the grumbles took on a pleased tone. Within seconds, the dragon had fallen asleep in his hand.

Now ought to be the moment panic set in. This morning, dragons had been creatures from fairy tales and now here he was: holding a sleeping example of that race in the palm of his hand. A dragon that had hatched from the stone Edward had stolen from a pirate’s treasure hoard and cared for these past ten years. He had kept the stone safe and warm and secret all these years without knowing why; without questioning it. He couldn’t say whether he would have done the same had he known the stone was an egg and housed a baby dragon because he couldn’t remember having a choice in the matter. The stone had been his to care for; it was that simple.

And the dragon was the same. Whatever influence the stone had exerted over him had broken with the cracking of its shell, but the dragon was a creature he had loved and kept safe since before it was born. The moment it stepped onto his hand and looked at him like it knew he would take care of it he had known it was true. No matter what happened, he would keep it safe.

Edward hadn’t thought he would sleep that night, but he must have done as he was woken by the bell. A familiar warm weight rested against his chest and it was only when it stirred that he remembered with a jolt that it was the dragon and not the stone.

Or not a stone; an egg.

The dragon grumbled when Edward lit the lamp but didn’t open its eyes. It seemed content to sleep as Edward rose from the bed, hissing at the room’s chill and groping for his dressing gown. Soon, Gibson would knock on his door with heated water for his wash and to take yesterday’s clothes. Edward was in the habit of performing his own shave so there was no need for Gibson to enter his cabin that morning, but he would be along to tidy or change his bed linen at some point. The man was not particularly conscientious in his duties and concealing the stone from him these past years had been no great task, but a living dragon was a different matter entirely.

Edward glanced back towards the bed. He had promised himself that he would take care of the dragon and he meant to do so, but he had a ship to run and other duties besides. He would need help.

He found Tom in the orlop, washing sheets with the determined air of one who knew he had much work ahead of him and should do all he could now to prepare for it. There was a certain restless tension behind his usual poise, but he had a smile for Edward and followed him to his cabin agreeably enough.

As soon as the door had slid closed behind them, Tom touched a knuckle to the underside of Edward’s chin so that he tipped his face up for a kiss. This early in the day, Tom’s face was still smooth from his shave and the clean line of his jaw begging to be kissed.

It was Tom who brought Edward back to his original purpose, holding him at bay with a hand flat against his chest and a slightly breathless laugh. “Not that I’m complaining, but I don’t think that’s what you called me in here for. What is it?”

Curiosity and amusement warred on Tom’s face as Edward knelt down to unlock the drawer beneath the bed. The dragon had still been sleeping when Edward finished his morning ablutions, but woke and was not at all pleased at the prospect of being shut in the drawer. Reasoning with it proved ineffective until Edward hit upon the idea of retrieving the bag that had held the stone all these years. Possibly something of its scent remained because the dragon had immediately crawled inside so only its head poked out and looked up at Edward, curious and sleepy.

Edward had stroked its tiny head with a fingertip. “There’s a good chap,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back soon. Just go back to sleep.”

It had let out an approving grumble and done just that.

When Edward opened the drawer now, it was still curled up in the bag exactly how he had left it. Its head raised and its eyes went from Edward to Tom. The bag twitched with the movements of its tail.

Beside Edward, Tom had gone very still. “Oh. Edward, what— what is that?”

Instead of answering, Edward put his hand out and the dragon climbed onto it in a curiously dainty manner and yawned hugely. Tom’s shoulder jostled Edward’s as they sat on the bed and looked down at the dragon. For its part, the dragon was regarding Tom just as intently, tail lashing uncertainly and tiny claws prickling Edward’s palm in a kneading motion.

It looked to Edward and he made a soothing sound. “Shh, it’s all right. This is Tom.”

“Edward…”

“Hold out your hand,” Edward instructed him. “Palm up. Like it’s a horse or a strange dog.”

“I don’t hold my hand out to strange dogs,” Tom’s voice was tight and a little higher in pitch than was usual. “That’s a good way to get bitten.”

Edward tsked. “Like so.” Slowly, he presented his other hand to the dragon and it immediately climbed onto it and cocked its head to the side.

Tom laughed breathlessly and did as directed. The dragon hissed at Tom’s hand and shook its wings threateningly.

“Shh, this is Tom. He’s a friend. He’s not going to hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

More slowly this time, Tom tried again; holding his flat palm just out of reach. The dragon’s tongue flickered out. After a few seconds it approached the tip of Tom’s index finger and examined it cautiously, looking to Edward for reassurance before moving on to his other fingers. It didn’t climb onto his hand the way it had Edward’s, but seemed to accept him and after a minute or two butted the base of Edward’s thumb until he rewarded its bravery with a stroke to the top of its head.

“Edward,” Tom said, very calm. “Why do you have a dragon?”

The entire story came out: his first posting on the Donegal, finding and concealing the stone, keeping it safe all these years. It was something of a relief to speak of it finally. Edward wasn’t much of a storyteller and had no talent for holding an audience, but Tom listened intently, asking the occasional question. By the end, the dragon had overcome its shyness and consented to sitting on Tom’s knee for a stretch before returning to Edward’s lap to play with the gold buttons on his coat.

“But how could you not know it was an egg?” Tom asked, watching the dragon batting at a button with its claws. “Eggs are not much like stones.”

It should have been obvious; Edward could see that now. The warmth of it alone should have told him the stone was a living thing, but he had never thought about it too closely. Just like he hadn’t thought about what made him steal it in the first place.

“It was a dragon egg,” he protested. “Not a chicken.”

He and Tom were of one mind when it came to the necessity of telling the captain, but Tom cautioned him to wait: Crozier had enough weighing on him at the moment and was in no condition to look at the situation with the clear head it required. This was not untrue, but it was the look on Crozier’s face when he passed sentence on Hickey and as he had watched that sentence carried out that made Edward agree. The Crozier of these past months was not a man he would trust with something as helpless as a baby dragon. If the man who emerged from the captain’s confinement was someone closer to the shrewd, generous man Edward remembered from the early days of the voyage—the man Tom still saw when he looked at the captain—Edward would take the matter to him.

The dragon was watching them intently as they finished their discussion, Edward’s buttons forgotten.

Tom noticed the attention. “So, does he have a name? I’m assuming he’s a he.”

“He is,” Edward replied, certain of it though he couldn’t say why and hadn’t given the matter any thought before that moment.

“Well, he needs a name then.” Tom held his hand out, grinning when the dragon reared up to rest his front feet on his fingertips and chirped at him. “What’s your name, then? Eh? Do you have a name? Can he talk?” he asked Edward. “Dragons can talk in stories, can’t they?”

“He’s a _baby_.”

Tom laughed at Edward’s indignation then turned back to the dragon. “Do you want a name, little fellow?”

The dragon looked at Edward expectantly. Tom did the same. Edward floundered, mind suddenly entirely empty of names suitable for a dragon and finally said, “Christopher.”

Amusement sparked in Tom’s eyes. “Christopher the dragon?”

Uncertain, Edward looked down at the dragon. He seemed to be giving the name some consideration before giving a pleased arch of his neck.

“Christopher,” Edward said, more confidently.

With that settled, there came the matter of food. Tom shook his head at Edward’s admission that Christopher had eaten nothing save his own shell and slipped out, returning with a tin of stewed veal.

“That food is for the men,” Edward protested weakly. Their supplies had seemed excessive when they first set sail: more food than Edward had seen in his life; more than they could ever eat, surely. Three winters in the ice and no sign of a thaw had changed his perspective, somewhat. Their food was finite and, worse, much of it spoiled. John had been working on an inventory of their stores for some days now, so at least they would know the extent of the situation.

“Are you going to let him starve?”

The question and his flippant tone made Edward frown. He joined Tom at the desk and watched as he set down the tin and took a knife from his pocket.

“It doesn’t seem right to take food from the men,” Edward said, even as he set Christopher down on the desk. “I have some provisions in my personal stores, still, and perhaps in the summer we will have more luck finding game. It is unfortunate penguins are only to be found south of the equator.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t say that if you’d heard the row they make.”

As they spoke, Christopher approached the open tin. His tongue flickered out. He reared up onto his back legs to inspect the tin’s contents.

And then he took a large bite out of the tin’s lid.

Edward and Tom gaped as he chewed the metal with every sign of ease and enjoyment.

“Well,” Tom said faintly. “That’s one problem solved.”

___

Christopher showed no interest in the stewed veal, but he ate the tin’s lid and took a sizeable bite from its side before Tom hurriedly exchanged it for an empty one. Of that, he ate a little more than a quarter before abruptly losing interest and indicating that he wished to be picked up again. Edward had watched him eat, faintly aghast and wondering that such a small stomach could hold such an amount of metal. Surely, it could not be good for him.

Tom laughed when Edward voiced this concern. “He’s a dragon: for all we know, this is what all of them eat.”

The morning was growing late and they both had their duties. Tom left with a kiss for Edward and a gentle touch to the top of Christopher’s head, which he allowed with a sleepy grumble that did not seem entirely displeased. Conveniently, his display of gluttony seemed to have left him ready to sleep once more. Terror’s crew was significantly diminished, but Edward had been entrusted with her command and he couldn’t do that from his cabin. An announcement would need to be made this morning: a reason given for the captain’s absence.

Returning Christopher to the drawer so he could resume sleeping was clearly the best course of action, but this was met with some resistance. Christopher could barely keep his eyes open, but each time Edward tried to set him down beside the bag he had happily slept in only minutes before, he beat his tiny wings and let out sounds of protest that had Edward glancing fearfully at the door.

“I have duties to attend,” Edward told him, somewhat desperately. “Captain Crozier has entrusted me with command of the ship. You’re just going to sleep; you won’t even know I’m gone.”

Christopher was singularly unswayed by this argument.

How remiss of the navy not to cover situations such as this in the training of its officers. Edward exhaled heavily and levelled a stern look at Christopher. “If you were to stay very still and very quiet, I suppose it’s possible I could carry you concealed within my coat.” Christopher’s head immediately came up at this, eyes bright. “But you mustn’t make a sound!”

Christopher refused to settle in Edward’s pocket, but with a little trial and error they came up with a solution wherein he would hook his claws into the knit of Edward’s sweater and Edward then button his coat over the top. Christopher fell asleep as soon as he had settled against Edward’s chest, but his grip did not loosen and the coat was spacious enough to comfortably accommodate a very small dragon.

It was an arrangement that worked well in the following days. From what Edward had observed of babies, both human and animal, they slept and ate in astonishing amounts and in this respect, dragons proved no different. Each morning, Christopher would consume at least half a tin, the same at luncheon, and then be hungry again before First Watch. Despite Tom’s sound logic, Edward thought a diet consisting only of metal could not be good for any living creature and did his best to tempt Christopher into eating at least some meat, with limited success. After each meal, Christopher slept for several hours, letting out occasional snuffles or twitching his tail when he was caught in a dream, and even when he woke he was mostly content to lie quietly against Edward’s chest. Whenever he grew restless, he would knead his tiny claws into Edward’s sweater until such time as Edward could excuse himself to his cabin and allow Christopher to stretch his wings or feed again.

Conversely, caring for Christopher made the unwelcome burden of command easier to shoulder. It had seemed an impossible thing when he first accepted Crozier’s pistol but, in truth, he had been performing the role of captain in all but name for some time now and survived the experience. Still, whenever he felt himself unequal to the task, he would touch his fingertips to the contentedly sleeping bundle at his chest and breathe a little easier.

On the advice of Dr McDonald, Edward had informed the men that their captain had been brought low by a bout of gastritis that would in all likelihood see him indisposed for a week or more. Their response was largely apathetic. George and John displayed a little more concern for the captain’s wellbeing than the men, but their overriding sentiment upon hearing the news was relief at being spared his temper for a stretch and Edward was ashamed to admit that this would have been his reaction in their situation also.

Between the three of them, the men were not lacking in guidance and if there was one thing the navy excelled at it was finding tasks to keep idle hands busy. In addition to the men’s regular duties, there was the ice to monitor and repairs to be made following the attack that had cost two men their lives and Mr Blanky his left leg above the knee.

The loss did not appear to have dampened Mr Blanky’s spirits any. He was healing well and had a grin for Edward when he stopped by the infirmary after his speech to the men. It transpired that Dr McDonald had already informed him of the real reason for the captain’s confinement and the news had eased his mind greatly. He even went so far as to say that losing his leg might have been worth it and then cackled so loudly at Edward’s expression that Christopher gave a startled jump and Edward had to excuse himself, nearly colliding with Sergeant Tozer as he made his daily visit to Private Heather.

Life settled into its new routine. Previously, Edward’s evenings had been spent in the wardroom, but it seemed unkind to risk disturbing the captain’s rest and so by mutual agreement he and his fellow officers retired to their own cabins. The timing could not have been more fortuitous. Christopher slept the better part of each day, but was far livelier in the evenings and excellent company. He was determined but ungainly in his efforts to fly and once he had tired himself out hopping up and down the bed frantically flapping his wings, he would climb up onto Edward’s shoulder and allow Edward to tell him what a splendid job he was doing. The gold buttons on Edward’s coat remained a source of fascination for him and so Edward rifled through his drawers and sea chest and then placed all of the small metal objects he could gather on the bed.

“Please don’t eat them,” he said as Christopher streaked down his arm like a bolt of pale blue lightning to inspect his watch chain.

That earnt him a rather scornful huff before Christopher moved on to a silver sixpence. He examined each item with great interest and excited flicks of his tail before carefully nudging them into a heaped pile at the centre of the bed. He circled the pile with a critical tilt to his head and looked up at Edward.

“It’s very good,” Edward told him.

Christopher seemed to concur, but he entertained himself with fussing at the pile of trinkets for the rest of the evening; drawing out a particular item to show Edward or scattering the pile so it could be assembled once more in a subtly different configuration. The inevitable moment when it was time to put away his toys and make ready for bed put him in a sulky humour, but he cheered at the promise he could resume his work the following evening. At night, he slept tucked against Edward’s chest, just as he had when he had still been in his egg.

The only thing that could have improved the evenings was Tom’s presence, but he had disappeared into the great cabin on the second day of the captain’s confinement and rarely emerged save to pass Gibson a pile of laundering or take some food at the galley. Sometimes he would let himself into Edward’s cabin—long enough to present Christopher with an empty tin and tuck his face into the side of Edward’s neck, but his mind was clearly elsewhere and it was almost a week into this new routine before he could stay for any length of time.

Really, Tom ought to have used this time to take his own rest, but Edward couldn’t find it within himself to protest his presence. Tom’s person was as immaculately turned out as ever, but there were dark circles beneath his eyes and he had melted into Edward’s embrace with a deep groaning sigh, only letting go when Christopher’s demands for his attention became impossible to ignore.

Christopher’s initial shyness around Tom was very much a thing of the past and his visits were now a cause for much excitement and demonstrations of Christopher’s flying prowess. This visit, however, all else was forgotten as Tom had brought with him not only his customary empty tin but also a gold button from an officer’s coat that he presented to Christopher, sending him into raptures.

“Oh, I see,” Edward said. “You’re trying to become his favourite.”

Tom laughed, but Christopher took the jest to heart and Edward had to spend several minutes reassuring him and being forlornly nuzzled before he would play with his new toy. Edward and Tom settled on the bed; Edward’s back against the wall and Tom drawn down between the cradle of his thighs, leaning back against Edward’s chest. Edward wrapped his arms around Tom as they watched Christopher romp through the cabin with his new gold button. Every so often, he would bring his prize back for Edward to admire and then bound away again, little chest puffed out proudly. Edward was entrusted with the button’s safekeeping when it was time for Christopher’s nightly flying practice. He could now fly up from Edward’s lap to his shoulder but distance was proving more of a challenge and he had yet to successfully make it from the bed to Edward’s desk.

Tom was a warm, pleasant weight in Edward’s arms. The scent of his hair oil was stronger than usual, as if he had hurriedly attempted to tame his hair before coming to Edward’s cabin, and made Edward’s nose itch faintly but he wouldn’t have moved for anything. Tom was quiet enough that Edward might almost have thought him asleep if not for the way he stroked his thumb across the back of Edward’s hand.

“Do you think there are other dragons?” Tom asked, watching Christopher as he gathered his courage to leap from the foot of the bed. “There must be, surely.”

It wasn’t something Edward had given any thought. “I suppose there must be,” he said now, slowly. “Christopher came from an egg: that would suggest the existence of a dragon to lay that egg.”

“Mm. And there were no other eggs on the ship?”

It was not the first time Tom had asked that question. Edward kissed the side of his head regretfully. “Not that I saw. I would have taken others if there had been any.”

Tom’s chest rose and fell within the circle of Edward’s arms as he sighed. “I wonder where they found him. The ship must have picked him up somewhere; perhaps traded for him.”

That was plain, but Edward didn’t have any answers for him. It had been ten years since Edward stole the stone from the pirate hoard and he had made no enquiries as to where they might have found it. He hadn’t even thought about it. But if there was one dragon it stood to reason that there would be others, and they had to have originated somewhere. In all of Edward’s years at sea he had never heard anything to make him believe dragons were any less of a myth than unicorns, but the evidence was currently sulking on the deck of his cabin. There were all manner of strange animals on the other side of the globe that Edward had never seen for himself: large jumping rats with pouches at their stomachs; black and white birds that walked upright and swam instead of flew. The world was full of wonders.

“Maybe there’s an island full of dragons, just waiting to be discovered,” Tom continued in a dreamy voice. He played with Edward’s hand as he spoke, idly stroking across the knuckles, turning it over to press his thumb to the palm. “Wouldn’t that be something to see?”

“And where do you think this dragon island lies?” Edward asked, charmed and wishing to encourage this side of Tom he had not seen before.

“Somewhere warm, perhaps.” Tom held Edward’s hand up to his own, palm to palm, judging the differences and then linking their fingers together. “With plenty of food.”

“You mean metal,” Edward said, raising his voice. “As dragons apparently only eat tin and no meat or vegetables at all.” He shot a pointed look at Christopher, who had made it up onto the desk at some point and was busy devouring the tin Tom had brought him. He gave an irritated shake of his wings but otherwise ignored Edward.

“Perhaps their island has a tin mine.”

Tom laughed as Edward dug a knuckle into his side. He turned to grin up at Edward, eyes bright and so handsome and pleased with himself that Edward was forced to kiss him, though he really wasn’t certain he deserved it after encouraging Christopher in his bad habits.

They settled again and grew quiet. The only sounds were the omnipresent creak and groan of the ice and Christopher making short work of his supper.

Tom stirred against Edward’s chest and made a thoughtful noise. “He gets sleepy after he eats, doesn’t he?” He indicated Christopher. “Like a baby.”

“Yes.” Edward was uncertain why Tom was asking a question to which he already knew the answer, but he was always happy to talk about Christopher.

“Good.”

Tom lifted their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to Edward’s knuckles. Then a longer, more deliberate kiss that drew Edward’s index finger into the wet heat of his mouth. His expression when he once more looked back over his shoulder at Edward left no room for misunderstanding.

“Yes,” Edward said again, in a rather different manner than before. “In fact, he looks so sleepy that I think he might want to finish his supper in the drawer.”


	4. Chapter 4

He and Christopher saw little of Tom after that night. Tom had warned him that this would be the case as they lay in bed after, that they were now headed towards the most dangerous time and the captain would need him more than ever. His gaze hovered around Edward’s chin when he admitted that this was how it had been for his mother and he let out a great shuddering breath when Edward pulled him in close and held him tight.

Tom had fallen asleep like that, breathing softly against Edward’s throat and with one hand tucked up the back of his shirt, spread across bare skin. The pleasure of holding him and the sweet lassitude spreading through Edward’s spent body made him careless and he had fallen into a doze himself by the time Christopher woke and began forcefully protesting his confinement.

Once released from the drawer, he hopped up onto the bed, rattling his wings with displeasure and holding fast to both his officer’s button and the golden braided epaulet from Edward’s dress uniform it had taken to bribe him into the drawer in the first place. It appeared none the worse for wear but, shamefully, Edward would have deemed it a worthy sacrifice in any case. Christopher drew up short at finding Tom in his own usual sleeping spot, but after a moment with his head cocked to the side in serious thought, he simply climbed up to seat himself atop Tom, chattering contentedly and showing them his treasures. It was the happiest Edward could ever remember being and there was a physical ache in his chest when Tom finally, reluctantly said his goodbyes and returned to his own cabin.

He had seen Tom a handful of times since then, always in passing, and spoken to him not at all. Sometimes noises could be heard from within the great cabin; shouts and crashes and once low pained groans that so distressed Christopher that Edward was forced to gather him beneath his coat and take a walk up on deck.

The repairs were all but complete now, save for that damage caused when the beast had pursued Mr Blanky up into the rigging. George had taken on the task of overseeing the work and was firm in his belief that they had succeeded in scaring it off for good; it had learnt that Englishmen were not to be trifled with. Edward was inclined to agree with him. They had seen neither hide nor hair of the beast since the night Christopher was born, and they had certainly wounded it gravely; the ice had been black and slick with blood. Still, he thought it prudent to continue the current watch schedule and, aside from the usual grumbling from the usual malcontents, there was no argument.

The men on watch greeted him amiably enough and he passed a cold but not unpleasant twenty minutes listening to Hartnell and Corporal Hedges argue good-naturedly about dining establishments in London they were both familiar with, occasionally offering his own thoughts, before he judged Christopher to have calmed sufficiently and bid the men goodnight.

One morning, Edward woke to an empty bed. Panic barely had time to penetrate the haze of sleep before he became aware of a plaintive noise coming from somewhere in the room. After lighting the lamp, he could discern a dark shape high in the corner above his washstand which revealed itself to be Christopher, hanging from the ceiling by all four sets of claws and flexing his wings miserably. He looked extremely sorry for himself.

“Did you get stuck?” Edward asked with some amusement. “Or do you intend to sleep upside down like a bat from now on?”

His jest was not appreciated and it took some time to soothe Christopher into a better humour once he had been rescued. He retreated onto Edward’s bookshelf, huffing and lashing his tail, and would only be coaxed down with a tin, which he ate in Edward’s lap with a distinctly sulky air.

“I wish you had more space to fly,” Edward told him, stroking down the ridge of his spine and hiding a smile when Christopher grumbled and butted his hand to redirect it to his head. “It’s so cold outside, though, and dark. I wouldn’t want you to fly off and then not be able to find your way back.”

The thought made him shiver in horror. Christopher blinked his large golden eyes up at Edward and offered him the half-chewed remainder of the tin, which Edward politely declined.

“But you may fly as much as you like when we are back in England,” Edward continued, gently scratching the base of the horned crest on Christopher’s head, which he reacted to much the same way as Neptune when his ears were rubbed. “You’ll like England. It’s warmer there than here, and so green. My father’s brother has some land he does not use and I am certain he would sell it to me for a reasonable price. There’s so much space: fields and hills as far as the eye can see, and a stream. You can learn to catch rabbits and fish, and that would be better than forever eating metal, don’t you think? I truly don’t think it can be good for you.”

Christopher made a mournful sound and Edward quickly added: “But I can also buy you a pile of tin each week, if that is what you wish, and you can catch rabbits and fish for me. We’ll be safe there. No one would try to hurt you or take you from me.”

His voice grew hushed. “And perhaps Tom might come with us, do you think? I think he would like it there, though it may be a little dull for him with only us for company. He’s used to living in a city and travelling the world. He might visit, though. That would be fine, would it not?”

He laughed at Christopher’s enthusiastic rumble and push against Edward’s hand.

“I’m glad we are in agreement.”

___

The ice pushed the ship up another few inches at the bow. Mr Blanky was back on his feet already and walking with the aid of a fine wooden leg fashioned for him by Mr Honey. He had required some assistance from Edward and Dr McDonald to make it up on deck to fully assess the situation, but pronounced it safe for the moment.

Visits to the great cabin were still discouraged but no longer forbidden, so Edward had been by to deliver a report on the state of the ship and her crew, feeling this would help set the captain’s mind at ease. Crozier had received Edward’s report from his bed. There were fresh linens in place and his hair had been neatly combed, but his skin was pale and clammy and his eyes frequently wandered off to the side as if someone else stood there. The air in the cabin was so thick and foul that Edward struggled to maintain a neutral expression.

A prolonged silence followed the conclusion of Edward’s report while Crozier stared at him with watery eyes and a knitted brow, leaving Edward uncertain how much of what he had said had been understood. Then Tom, who had been hovering at the doorway, cleared his throat and said, “All is well, sir,” and Crozier nodded.

“Good,” he rasped. “Good man, Edward.”

They had now entered the third week of the captain’s confinement. Three weeks since Edward had been entrusted with command of Terror; three weeks since Christopher had hatched from the stone. A long time for some things and no time at all for others.

It was a little more than a week since he had last spoken with Tom, but that too felt far longer. There had been a brief exchange of words and a tired smile when Edward was admitted to the great cabin to deliver his report to the captain, but that hardly counted. Tom had not been to Edward’s cabin since the night they discussed the island of dragons and shut Christopher in the drawer, so Edward decided it was perhaps time he stopped waiting and took the initiative.

He found Tom at the table in the great cabin. Eyes closed but not quite sleeping; his head resting on his hand and Neptune at his feet. Without his usual expression of forced alertness, his pallor and the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes and mouth were more pronounced.

Though Tom had not been asleep, he still started when Edward set a cup of tea in front of him. He blinked at the fine china and then up at Edward and smiled, slow and sweet. “Did you put lemon and honey in it?”

Edward dropped a kiss to his hair. “If we had any it would be all yours.”

He took a seat at the table beside Tom, taking his hands and chafing them gently between his own before kissing the knuckles. The great cabin still carried the smell of a sickroom: sweat and vomit and worse lingering beneath the scent of soap and lamp oil, but it was not so pronounced as it had been. He wondered if Tom even noticed it anymore. “Drink your tea, Mr Jopson, and then to bed with you. That’s an order.”

The smile on Tom’s face grew sly at the corners. “If you’re willing to do all the work, I’m game, darling.”

This startled a laugh from Edward and he shot a worried glance at the captain’s half-closed cabin door. Tom’s expression only grew more pleased with itself, so there was likely no danger of the captain waking. “To _sleep_. I’ll keep watch over the captain. When was the last time you took some rest?”

Tom waved that off. “I’m fine. I promised the captain I’d take care of him.”

“I know. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Tom’s expression softened and he leaned forward for a kiss. His breath was slightly sour and he carried the smell of the sickroom beneath his usual hair oil and soap scent, but Edward cared not a bit.

They were interrupted by Christopher poking his head out of the top of Edward’s coat with his usual impeccable timing. He squirmed and protested until Edward unbuttoned his coat enough for Christopher to wriggle free and reacquaint himself with Tom. Tom laughed in surprise. “Good Christ, haven’t you grown? Edward, he’s enormous!”

It had been near a fortnight since Tom saw Christopher last, and looking at him with new eyes, Edward realised he was right. Christopher was now roughly the size of a housecat, though more slender, with a tail the length of Edward’s forearm and wings to match. The crest of six horns on his head was also more pronounced than it had been, surely, and his colour somewhat darker with more dappling along his wings and sides and a distinctly greenish tinge to his blue scales. It seemed incredible that Edward had not noticed these changes until this moment.

“You used to fit on the palm of my hand,” Tom was telling Christopher. “Do you remember? You couldn’t do that now, could you?”

At Edward’s feet, Neptune huffed and drooled on his boots until he obligingly rubbed the dog’s silky ears. Neptune had given Edward a curious look and sniff the first time he had encountered him carrying Christopher beneath his coat, but never shown any more interest than that. A dragon being given the attention and caresses that were his due was clearly where he drew the line.

Once he had greeted Tom, Christopher hopped up onto Edward’s shoulder and, with a cry to make certain he had their attention, took flight twice around the great cabin before getting distracted by his first glimpse of Neptune and swooping beneath the table to investigate. There was a brief scuffle and a few lethargic growls, but they soon reached an accord and Christopher’s claws clicked against the deck as he wandered off to inspect the rest of the great cabin. It was with a pang that Edward realised it was to date the largest space he had been allowed to roam by far.

Edward was pulled from his thoughts by Tom’s appreciative noise as he tasted the tea.

“So,” Tom said, with the weighty air of one about to ask a question of the utmost importance. “Have you chosen your costume for Carnivale?”

He was entirely too amused by Edward’s despairing groan. “I have just had this exact conversation with Captain Fitzjames.”

“And? What did you tell him?”

The weak excuse Edward had given Fitzjames about the officers having given their trunk of clothes to the men wasn’t worth repeating. “What costume will you wear?” he asked instead.

Tom sighed and glanced back over his shoulder to the captain’s doorway. “I don’t expect I’ll be able to go. We’re not out of the woods yet.” A wistful smile spiced with mischief crossed his face. “We had such a Carnivale that first year of the Antarctic expedition. That was a night to remember. Oh, I danced with so many handsome officers that night.”

Edward had almost forgotten the pleasure of being teased by Tom. “Well, you are in luck. We do have the most handsome man in the navy sailing with us; I’m certain Captain Fitzjames would be very pleased to give you a dance.”

Tom smiled into his tea cup. “I should like to dance with the most handsome man in the navy,” he said quietly. “I should like that very much.”

There came a small clatter from the bookshelf in the corner and Christopher swooped back towards them, circling over their heads before taking a perch on Edward’s shoulder and affecting great interest in his own foreclaws. It was not plain what he had disturbed and the clearest sign yet of Tom’s fatigue that he did not get up to investigate, barely glancing in that direction before turning his attention back to his tea.

Edward petted Christopher and received a contrite nuzzle to his whiskers in return. “I don’t think I had best go to Carnivale either. It would mean leaving Christopher by himself for too long.”

“Or you could take him with you; wear a costume big enough to hide in. A ballgown, perhaps, or a wig. Or a pantomime horse.”

“Absolutely not.” Edward brightened at a sudden notion. “Perhaps you could go in my stead? I could remain here with Christopher and watch over the captain.”

Tom made a face. “I wouldn’t want to go without you.”

“Oh? I thought you wished to dance with the most handsome man in the navy.”

“Yeah,” Tom said with a smile. “I do.”

The fondness of his look made his meaning clear and Edward felt himself colour, ridiculously. He kissed Tom to hide his embarrassment. “Take your tea to bed with you, Mr Jopson; you’re speaking nonsense. I’ll see the captain has everything he needs.”

It was an order Tom was tired enough to obey. Edward retrieved his log book and pen from his cabin and settled at the table. Normally, he was scrupulous in this task and had always found it satisfying; taking all the disorderly business of the day and rendering it into neat, organised words on a page, but he had been so busy and distracted these past days that he had written very little indeed. There were many details he had omitted that might prove pertinent at a later date. As he worked, Christopher remained draped around his shoulders, alternating between sleepy yawns and nuzzles and watching the progression of Edward’s pen across the page with curiosity.

It was not dissimilar to how he sometimes behaved when Edward read to him from one of the books on his shelf, and it occurred to him that Christopher might understand the writing. Or he might wish to learn.

He had just opened his mouth to ask Christopher if this was so, when he was startled by a noise and a white shape in the corner of his eye. The captain had risen from his bed and was swaying in the doorway to his cabin, dressed in his nightclothes and staring at Edward with bulging eyes. No, not at Edward, he realised: at Christopher.

“What devil is this?” Crozier asked in a voice that sounded as if it had been scraped out of his throat.

Edward gained his feet at the same moment Christopher leapt from his shoulder and flew out of the room.

“Are you well, sir?” Edward asked, not allowing himself to glance in the direction Christopher had flown. “Can I do anything for you?”

Crozier stared at him for a long moment, confused and bleary. Finally, he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. “Where’s Jopson?”

“I ordered him to take some rest.”

“Good. Good.”

After a lengthy silence Edward ventured: “Can I do anything for you, sir?”

Crozier shook his head and then grunted. “Water.”

He visited his seat of ease as Edward was fetching it and remained there for a time, head tipped back and eyes closed. After hovering for an uncomfortably long moment, Edward returned to the table and his log book. Christopher was sensible enough to have found somewhere safe to hide, most likely in Tom’s cabin, which had only a curtain barring the way instead of a door. He wouldn’t have wandered too far into the ship, surely.

Wrapped up in these and similar thoughts, he had almost forgotten the captain until he took a seat at the table and regarded Edward with an almost uncomfortable frankness. Edward did his best not to fidget.

“I haven’t treated you as a captain should treat his second,” Crozier finally said, in the careful meter of one who had rehearsed his words before speaking them aloud. “You deserved better, Edward, and I hope we can forget what is past and move forward from here.”

“Sir,” Edward protested. It being true didn’t make it any less awful to hear.

Crozier shook his head. They were both quiet for a time and looking anywhere but at each other, then Crozier gestured to the log book and roughly said, “So. What have I missed?”

Before ten minutes had passed, Crozier had started to shiver and his eyes to droop. He nodded when Edward politely suggested it might be better if he retire and they continue their discussion at a later date. Snores soon resonated from his cabin. Edward waited a few more minutes before he crept along the passageway to Tom’s cabin. As he had hoped, he found Tom asleep and Christopher curled up at the foot of his bed.

Christopher’s head came up as soon as Edward twitched the curtain to one side. He yawned hugely when Edward gathered him up and immediately hooked his claws into Edward’s sweater, nuzzling his chest sleepily.

“That was very clever of you to come to Tom’s cabin,” Edward told him and he made a quiet grumbly sound of agreement. He was asleep before Edward had rebuttoned his coat and remained so for the rest of the night as Edward wrote in his log book and kept watch over his two charges.

___

There was no avoiding Carnivale. As an officer, it would look poor if he didn’t join the men in celebrating the work they had put into constructing the intricate labyrinth of tents, and he had to admit he was curious to see the final result. A truly appalling amount of their supplies had been sacrificed for this venture, but the men deserved to feel proud of themselves and they deserved their night of revelry before they learnt what would be asked of them all come spring.

The warmth of the tent was blissful after the half mile walk across the ice. Heat and enticing smells wafted out from the galley tent where Misters Diggle and Wall held court, doling out plates of food to men gamely pretending it wasn’t the same bland fare they had eaten every day for these past three years. Bunting hung overhead and torches blazed along canvas walls painted to resemble a drawing room. Crowds gathered in loose knots, faces flushed with rum and excitement beneath their paint and masks, many of them unrecognisable until they spoke.

Edward had been issued with a disapproving look and some kind of tall hat made from cloth when he arrived without a costume—both courtesy of Henry Le Vesconte—but had found himself at somewhat of a loss since then. There had forever been some deficit in his nature that left him ill at ease in large gatherings, a matter exacerbated by the fact that the majority of the men here were under his command. It was one thing to give an order or pass a half hour listening to a friendly debate when all were on duty and there were clear guidelines for such interaction; it was something else entirely to speak with the men when drinks and games were involved and every potential avenue of conversation seemed either too informal or left him feeling like he was playing the role of schoolmaster or distant uncle. He would never understand how George and Henry made it look so simple.

He accepted the hat and the drink pressed into his hand and followed Henry to a room dressed up to resemble a racecourse. Edward had never cared much for racing of either horses or dogs, but the men’s enthusiasm was infectious and he passed an enjoyable time cheering them on before growing restless and curious to see what the other rooms held.

A stage had been set up in one room and he spent some time watching a skit performed by two of Erebus’ petty officers and a ship’s boy in an ill-fitting gown and a few musical turns. One of the long tables in the galley room had been claimed by the marines, dressed as knights with Private Heather’s insensible body propped upright and reigning over all as their king, paper crown not quite hiding the rent in his skull. It was a spectacle both ghoulish and touching and Edward flinched when Sergeant Tozer met his eyes, feeling as if he had intruded upon something.

Tozer nodded an acknowledgement at Edward, and another time he might have pulled up a chair and listened to a story or two, but there was no welcome in the sergeant’s posture and so Edward returned the nod and turned away. Wishing nothing more than to be back in his own cabin with Christopher.

How different it might have been were Tom here. Tom would know how to speak to people in a situation such as this and Edward could have stood at his side and nodded and listened and occasionally made some appropriate interjection so he was a part of the conversation too. Or perhaps Tom would have wanted to speak to Edward alone. It would be something else entirely to bring Tom a drink and then the two of them walk together through the various rooms with their arms linked like they were taking in a pleasure garden. Would Tom really have wanted to dance with him? There was no dancing yet, but it would only take two men to start it and the rest would follow.

Edward poured himself another drink and drew his sleeve across his brow. The temperature in the galley room had risen enough that he was perspiring beneath his coat. Not a pleasant sensation, but a novel one in recent months so he made no move to unbutton or remove his welsh wig.

As he sipped the watered-down rum he allowed himself to imagine dancing with Tom; their bodies close together and swaying to music. If Tom didn’t think it foolish, if it was something he would like, perhaps they might have that dance in Edward’s cabin instead. There was enough music living in Edward’s memory for him to hum an accompaniment and he could close his eyes and lay his head on Tom’s shoulder and not worry what his expression might reveal. That would be fine, indeed.

As if he had conjured Tom up by thinking of him, suddenly he and Captain Crozier were there. The captain looked queasy but determined and Tom hovered about him, as anxious and ferocious as a lion with its cub.

Christopher must be beneath Tom’s slops. That was what Edward told himself as he ushered Mr Reid on his way and beyond the reach of Tom’s protective instincts and trailed after him and the captain. Tom did not have the bearing of a man with a live dragon clinging to his chest, but if Christopher wasn’t with him that would mean he was alone on the ship and the thought of that sent a cold wave through Edward despite the stifling heat.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said once Edward was finally able to catch his attention, as Fitzjames called all the men together to hear Crozier speak. “The captain wanted to see it. I couldn’t say no. He was sleeping on his pile of treasure on your bed when we left. I’m sure he’s fine.”

There were unhappy mutterings from the men as the captain revealed the plan to abandon the ships and make for Back’s Fish River in the spring, but Edward’s mind was elsewhere. It would surely not look ill if he were to excuse himself once the captain’s speech was over and return to Terror, even though the first sunrise was still hours away, but was it necessary? Christopher was a sound and enthusiastic sleeper and even if he did wake he was not foolish. He had his officer’s button and his other trinkets. Edward had seen for himself how he could happily spend hours admiring them and arranging them into a pile; there was no reason to believe he would behave differently without Edward there to observe him.

Edward was so occupied with this line of thought that the first he knew of Lady Silence’s arrival was the shocked surge of the crowd around him. The captain’s shout pulled him from that grisly scene in time to see Dr Stanley touch a flaming torch to his own chest and transform into some nightmarish figure; a Nero’s candle with arms outstretched in supplication. This fire had barely been extinguished when there came the realisation that there were more, that all of the surrounding rooms had been set ablaze and they were trapped at the centre.

The very air itself seemed aflame, such was the intensity of the heat, but the men kept their heads and worked as one to escape. Screams and crashes rose above the roar of flame. Smoke filled Edward’s eyes, his lungs, burning and choking him but all he could do was keep taking the crates Mr Blanky passed to him and handing them to the next man in the chain as they cleared space for those others—Tom and Fitzjames among them—working to lever open a gap between the outer wall and a towering shelf of ice.

It gave suddenly with an almighty crack and a rush of frigid air. As the crowd surged forwards, Edward thought he heard a different sound from deep within the tent but he was carried along through the gap and to the safety of the outside. It was like plunging into ice water after the tent’s inferno, but the air was clear and he gulped it down gratefully, buffeted on all sides by men doing the same. Wide eyes and dazed expressions surrounded him, their face paint and gaudy costumes only making them seem more lost. It was as he was still struggling to catch his breath that Edward heard the sound from inside the tent again, clearer this time. A sound he had never heard before but recognised instantly.

There were bodies blocking his path but he thrust them aside as he ran for the gap in the tent. He was almost there when someone caught him around the chest, stopping him and not letting him go no matter how he fought.

Tom was in front of him. He was shouting but Edward couldn’t hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears. He begged Tom to let him go, trying to make him understand that Christopher was in there, but Tom and another man held him fast even as he thrashed and shouted in his terror.

Part of the tent collapsed and the flames soared higher. A wall of heat struck Edward’s face, he felt his eyelashes singe and still he fought to get back inside because Christopher was in there and he was screaming.

A shadow shot from within the tent and circled above their heads, screeching.

Panicked shouts came from all around but Edward sobbed with relief. He threw off the hands holding him and stretched his arms upwards. “Christopher! Christopher!”

The shadow dropped out of the sky and into his arms with an impact that sent him staggering back a step. He cradled the shivering body to him, hot tears filling his eyes as Christopher buried his head in his chest.

“Edward,” Christopher cried. “Edward. Edward.”

___

There was a bowl of water and two cloths laid out when Edward finally made it back to his cabin. Such a thing fell under Gibson’s duties, but he recognised Tom’s handiwork in the small sliver of soap and the second cloth.

Christopher made an unhappy sound when Edward unbuttoned his coat. He hadn’t spoken again and refused to loosen his grip or raise his head, even to allow Edward to check him for signs of injury. Fearing he would catch cold and at a loss for what else to do, Edward had in the end unfastened his coat and Christopher darted inside in a flash of scales and whipping tail before the final button was freed. He clung to Edward’s sweater, making small frightened noises that became muffled as the coat was rebuttoned over him.

Once that was done, Edward had looked up and found himself at the centre of a ring of staring faces. A man he didn’t recognise beneath face paint and wig crossed himself. Edward stood frozen in place, hand hovering uncertainly at his chest and aware of Tom at his shoulder.

The silence was broken by Crozier, who began barking orders in a voice ravaged by smoke and bringing them all back to the matter at hand. There were injured men to care for and supplies that could be salvaged from those parts of the tent not yet ablaze. Now wasn’t the time for standing around like moonstruck calves.

Crozier regarded Edward with an inscrutable expression for an uncomfortable length of time before putting him in charge of recovering what supplies could still be saved from the fire. This was something Edward knew how to do and having a clear task set before him pushed everything else to the margins. He and his men worked for hours as the fire raged and then died and cooled enough to be picked through as the first sun of the year rose and then set again. It was dirty, gruelling work and a relief to finally trudge his way back to Terror and close the door of his cabin behind him. Every part of him ached and felt filthy with smoke and dried sweat.

Christopher’s trembling had lessened as Edward worked until he finally fell into a troubled sleep that he was less than pleased to be woken from now.

“Edward,” he said miserably.

“Come now.” Edward gently coaxed him into releasing his grip on his sweater. “All is well. You’re safe, we’re both safe. You’ll feel better after a bath and then you can go back to sleep.”

Christopher allowed himself to be set on the desk and cleaned with a damp cloth, though he held onto the open front of Edward’s coat with one set of foreclaws and his head hung low. Thankfully, he wasn’t hurt, merely frightened and filthy, though much of that had been transferred to Edward’s sweater and the inside of his coat.

As Edward worked, he spoke quietly to Christopher in the hopes it would calm him. He wasn’t any kind of a storyteller, but he told Christopher about a music concert he had attended with his mother and two elder sisters when he was a boy and the thrill of visiting a city for the first time. He talked about England; her rolling hills, the overfull house of his childhood and the excitement when his father would return home between voyages with strange coins with holes at their centre and tales of far-off lands.

By the time he had finished, Christopher was swaying from side to side and almost asleep on his feet.

“Edward,” he said again, tugging at Edward’s coat. His voice was small and rough, like a handful of pebbles being rolled together; clear, but very obviously not a sound made by a human throat.

“I wasn’t aware you could talk.” Edward obligingly picked him up, cradling him against his chest. “Is that all you can say?”

Christopher blinked his large golden eyes up at Edward, giving the matter serious thought. “No,” he finally said, sounding somewhat sulky.

After all that had happened that night, Edward would not have believed himself capable of laughter but he surprised himself. The slightly hysterical edge to it quickly sobered him and he was quiet as he put Christopher to bed.

The water in the bowl was already grey, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care enough to fetch more. It would do for tonight. He worked the remaining soap into a lather and scrubbed at his skin, rather less gently than he had treated Christopher, before dressing for bed and settling in beneath the blankets. The stink of smoke was still on him; in his hair and whiskers, coating the inside of his throat. The air had been thick with it and the screams of men as they were cooked or trampled. Bodies they had later pulled from the wreckage and lined up like cordwood; burnt, broken things that were barely recognisable as once having been men.

He must have made a sound or shuddered because Christopher stirred against his chest with a low whimper. Soothing him back to sleep had the same effect on Edward himself and he was soon out like a light.

Some time later, he was woken by a sound and the sense that there was someone else in the room. His mind was too blurred and thick with sleep to make sense of the response to his enquiry, but it was enough for him to recognise Tom’s voice and relax once more. He sighed when the blankets lifted behind him and Tom slid beneath, tucking warm and close along the length of Edward’s back and wrapping an arm around his waist. The simple pleasure of being held lulled Edward back down into the dark waters of sleep.

Gradually, he became aware that Tom was shaking against him and made a confused sound, trying to turn over, but Tom held him tight and buried his face in the back of Edward’s neck.

“I was afraid for you,” Tom said, low and painful, like a confession. “That’s why I stopped you. Not because I don’t care about Christopher.”

“I know.” Edward was barely awake enough to register what was being said but knew it was somehow important. He fumbled blindly until he found Tom’s arm and patted it, rubbing his cheek against the sheets and mumbling through a yawn, “It’s all right, sweetheart. I was afraid for you too.”

The arm around his waist tightened and then relaxed. The last thing Edward felt before sleep took him once more was a kiss pressed to the nape of his neck.

___

A little more than three months had elapsed since Edward stood at the table in the great cabin while judgement was passed on three men for abandoning their posts and kidnapping Lady Silence. The room looked rather different when he was the one called in front of Captains Crozier and Fitzjames to explain himself.

Since Christopher’s existence was no longer a secret, and indeed he was the subject of this meeting and had a greater stake in its outcome than anyone, he was perched on Edward’s shoulder. He had slept the night through and appeared in slightly better spirits this morning, though he was loath to let Edward out of his sight and had yet to speak again. Despite his silence, he was perfectly capable of making his feelings known and sat lashing his tail and glaring at both captains in a distinctly unhelpful manner.

Crozier still had the pale, somewhat bilious demeanour of the previous night, but his eye was sharp. “I’ve seen that dragon before,” he said, nodding at Christopher, who hissed in response. “He was sitting on your shoulder just like that, in this room. I thought I’d imagined it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Crozier nodded again. It was difficult to read this version of him. He had been so transparent when he was drunk—embarrassingly so, at times—and before the drink consumed him he had tended towards directness: you were never left in any doubts as to whether or not you had displeased him. This inscrutable calm was new and unsettling.

Thankfully, Fitzjames was as ever himself. “Would you mind explaining, lieutenant, how you came to have a dragon aboard a naval vessel in the middle of the Arctic?”

There was rather more to the story than when he had first told it to Tom, but Edward kept it as straightforward and lacking in embellishment as any other report delivered to superior officers. Tom, he left out of it entirely. As Edward spoke, he became aware that he also had Christopher’s undivided attention and realised to his shame that it was his first time hearing this too. It had not occurred to Edward that he might be curious where he came from.

Both captains listened in a silence that lingered once Edward had finished. Fitzjames had one hand at his mouth and Crozier’s expression was disconcertingly placid, as if it had all been only what he expected.

“Jopson told me it was his idea to keep the dragon a secret from myself and Captain Fitzjames.”

Of course Tom had already spoken to the captain, it had been foolish not to consider that he would. Edward hadn’t seen him since the previous night when Tom had been sent back to the ships to care for the injured, though he had dreamt of him; vague, formless dreams of being held and cared for that nonetheless felt real enough that it was with disappointment that he had woken to a bed empty save for himself and Christopher. Edward ought to have sought him out before this meeting to see that all was well and discuss what they both might say.

“The decision was mine, sir.” Edward drew himself up to his full height. “I take full responsibility.”

Crozier exchanged a sideways look with Fitzjames and it was only then that Edward realised the mood of the room was nearer to incredulity or even amusement than anger. Crozier dragged a hand across his face. “I dare say I would be more surprised by the existence of dragons before this voyage,” he told his fellow captain. “But at this point… What’s one more beast compared to the one outside?”

“Sir!” Edward protested at the same time as Christopher drew himself up and shook his wings at the insult. “With respect, Christopher is not a beast. He’s… he’s rather upset this morning and has forgotten his manners, but he’s an intelligent and civilised creature. I can attest to that.”

A curious expression passed across Crozier’s face, similar to Tom’s look when Edward had first chosen the name. “Christopher.”

“Yes,” Edward said uncertainly. Christopher gave a warning rumble.

“Patron saint of travellers,” Fitzjames remarked to the room at large. Edward held his tongue; it didn’t seem as if it would add anything to the conversation to admit that the name had belonged to a childhood friend. The situation had left Fitzjames less calm than Crozier; his face was hollowed out with exhaustion and his fingers drummed a tattoo against the table’s surface. “I understand Christopher can speak?”

Edward met Christopher’s eyes and saw only stubborn resistance there. “He has said a few words, sir. None before or since last night. The fire upset him greatly.”

“Yes, that was quite a show, lieutenant. Quite a cap to an already dramatic evening.”

Heat rose in Edward’s cheeks. “I had thought he was still aboard Terror, sir. He must have been confused to be left behind and followed us there, and then was trapped in the fire as we were.”

“Well, he’s certainly upset the men.” Fitzjames sighed, looking wearier than Edward had ever seen him. “You are aware many of them believe it was in fact Christopher who started the fire?”

Outrage stole Edward’s breath from him. His fists clenched at his sides. “Every man there saw Dr Stanley start the fire.”

“We saw him set himself on fire,” Crozier corrected with maddening serenity. “We don’t know how the other fires started, and many aren’t certain what they saw. Show two men the same thing and you’ll have two different stories: I needn’t tell you what happens when you have over a hundred men and a dozen barrels of rum.” He placed both palms flat on the table and leant forwards. “The point is, Edward, that the last thing we need right now is more panic and confusion. We need to nip this in the bud, do you understand?”

Edward looked from him to Fitzjames, not certain he did understand what was being said but knowing he didn’t like it. Christopher nuzzled the side of his jaw. “Sir, I can assure you that Christopher had nothing to do with the fire. He almost— he almost died and—”

“Edward—”

“And he can’t even breathe fire!”

“That’s a shame,” Fitzjames said with a levity that did not reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be convenient? No more waiting around for leads to open up if we had a dragon to melt a path for us.”

Christopher made a considering sound and then leapt from Edward’s shoulder, swooping down onto the table and startling everyone. Fitzjames shot out of his seat. Christopher’s back arched and his wings spread wide as he made a strange coughing noise and a shower of sparks flew from his mouth to sizzle on the table’s surface. The smell of struck matches rose in the air.

The three of them looked at each other with wide eyes.

___

It was a clear cold day in early May when Tom joined Edward at Terror’s bow. Edward smiled in greeting before the two of them turned their attention to a spot on the ice some twenty yards from the ship where Christopher and a small group of men were playing an improvised game of football.

In the months since Carnivale, Christopher had grown rapidly and was now the size of a small pony and very nearly the length of a whaling boat from nose to the tip of his tail. He had lost his disdain for meat and now ate nearly as much of it as he did the empty tins, which Edward had come to suspect were akin to sweetmeats for a dragon; he had even become somewhat of an expert hunter of rats before growing too large to move freely in the lower decks. The main hatch had been widened twice to accommodate his girth, but his days of sleeping in Edward’s bed or perching on his shoulder were well and truly over.

The men had adapted to sharing their quarters with a dragon. Some still feared him and others watched him in a covetous way Edward liked not at all, but most had warmed to their new shipmate after he used his newly-emerged ability to breathe fire to melt the ice surrounding Terror and restore her to a more stable position. Knowing that when summer arrived he would carve them a path and they would all finally leave this place meant morale was higher than it had been for many a month. How close they had all come to walking out; how impossible to imagine what would have become of them.

As he grew, Christopher spoke more but remained selective in his audience. He was a lively and opinionated conversationalist with Edward and Tom and a handful of other favourites, but less forthcoming with the rest of the crew and there were some men he refused to speak with outright. Embarrassingly, both captains were among this final group, to Crozier’s amusement and Fitzjames’ dismay. It seemed Christopher was not above holding a grudge.

The men had all been sworn to secrecy as far as Christopher’s presence on the expedition was concerned. Some would keep that promise, but Christopher’s safety was not something Edward was willing to gamble with so he had arranged with Crozier that he and Christopher would quietly disembark before Terror made dock at Portsmouth.

Christopher bored of his game with the men and launched himself into the air. Despite Tom’s theory that dragons hailed from warmer climes, the cold didn’t seem to bother him in the least and he delighted in stretching his wings each day. Sometimes, he would bring back seals he had caught on the ice, and other times he would relay messages between Dr Goodsir and Lady Silence, who had returned to her own people soon after Carnivale and whose lack of a tongue seemed to have no effect on Christopher’s ability to communicate with her.

“What will you do when we return to England?” Tom asked as they watched Christopher soar overhead.

“My family has some land in Westmoreland. He’ll be safe there and can catch as many deer or rabbits as he likes. We’ll eat well, certainly.”

“And you’ll live there with him?”

“Of course.”

Tom thrust his hands into his pockets and rocked lightly on his heels. “Won’t you miss the sea?”

Surprisingly, this was not something Edward had needed to give any great amount of thought. If Tom had asked him that question a year ago his answer would have been very different, but much had changed since then. Seeing that Christopher was safe and happy and could live out his days without anyone trying to hurt him or use him for their own ends was worth any sacrifice, and when he thought of it now it didn’t seem like it was such a very big thing he would be giving up in comparison to what he had gained.

“Not as much as I would miss him,” he said honestly.

Tom nodded, and Edward thought he read approval in the set of his chin.

It seemed as good a time as any. Edward licked his lips and kept his gaze fixed straight ahead of him. “There’s… ah, there’s a house that comes with the land, you know. A cottage, really. It’s not much and it’ll need some upkeep, I imagine, but there’s plenty of room and it’s very fine land surrounding it. I know you might not, that is to say I don’t expect that you’ll—”

“Don’t be daft,” Tom said. “Of course I’m going with you.”

Happiness filled Edward’s chest so completely that all he could do was stand in silence and bite the inside of his cheek to keep some control over his expression. He darted a look sideways, at Tom’s ducked head and helpless grin, and couldn’t contain a laugh. Tom kicked the side of his boot very lightly and they said nothing for a while.

“Will you not be very bored staying in England?” Edward asked, when he could trust himself to speak once more. “You wanted to see the world; find the dragon island.”

“Mm.” Tom’s eyes were on Christopher as he swooped and rolled overhead. There was a smile on his lips. “Well, there’s more than one way to do that. How big do you think Christopher’s going to get?”

**Author's Note:**

> I am convinced that Edward would absolutely be the kind of dad who worries his dragon is not eating a well-balanced diet, and Tom would absolutely make fun of him for it.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, comments and kudos are both very appreciated!
> 
>  ***Edited to add:** the tumblr master post is [here](https://rubysharkruby.tumblr.com/post/627711716951801856/so-comes-fire-after-snow-written-by-rubysharkruby#notes) and includes a rebloggable version of the beautiful cover art for this fic. Just in case you feel like having some Christopher & Co. on your dash (and, honestly, why wouldn't you?).


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